We Sing, We Dance, We Eat Tomatoes
by OwlinAMinor
Summary: When Lovino Vargas takes in a starving guitar player called the Curbside Prophet from the streets of Philadelphia, he isn't expecting the man to tolerate him for more than a couple weeks, much less fall in love with him. Spamano (and UKUS, PruCan, GerIta, Rome/Germania, and many others.) Based on the music of Jason Mraz.
1. Sunshine Song - Prologue

**Title: We Sing, We Dance, We Eat Tomatoes**

**Pairings: **_**SPAMANO**_**, UKUS, CanPru, GerIta, Rome/Germania, some Edelweiss, some Bad Touch Trio, some SpaBel, some Turkey/Romano, a bit of Spain/Netherlands, and potential FRussia, Hungary/Ukraine, and Belarus/Lichtenstein as the story goes on, as well as a bunch of other possible minor pairings (PoLiet, SuFin, DenNor, Korea/China, ThaiViet, GiriPan, etc.), oh and a bunch of people randomly paired with France, because he's France**

**Nyo'd Characters: fem!Italy (Felicia), fem!Germany (Louise), fem!America (Amelia), fem!Prussia (Gillian), and possibly male!Belarus**

**Genres: Romance & Humor (do I ever write anything else, honestly?)**

**AU: all humans, takes place in Philadelphia around now**

**Summary: When Lovino Vargas takes in a starving guitar player called the Curbside Prophet from the streets of Philadelphia, he isn't expecting the man to tolerate him for more than a couple weeks, much less fall in love with him.**

**Updates: I'll try for once a week. Probably on Fridays. (Try being the key word there …)**

**Length: 50 chapters, around 4,000 words each, give or take a couple thousand (unless of course Jason Mraz writes more songs by the time I finish, in which case I will scream for a little bit, then re-write half of my plot)**

**About the Jason Mraz Thing: This fanfiction is inspired entirely by the songs of (amazing) singer, poet, guitarist, and philosopher Jason Mraz, who, in my opinion, is basically Spain (only American, and not as hot.) Each chapter is based around one song in particular, with a plot and theme based on that song, and lyrics from the song serving as page breaks, and Antonio will sing the song at some point during the chapter. So, basically, the entire story is a series of fifty songfics with an interwoven plot. You certainly don't have to be familiar with all of Jason Mraz's songs to like this story – you don't even have to like them – but it helps. A lot. At least, try to listen to the songs for each chapter while you're reading that chapter. :)**

**Dissing of the Claims: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. Get used to that sentence, because I'm not going to say it again. Sorry, Himaruya. I don't own Jason Mraz (or any of his lyrics) either.**

**A/N: So, I've been working on this story off and on for over a year, now, and was starting to think I'd never actually post it (partly because I've been getting into other, non-Hetalia fandoms lately – shame on me, I know, but AVENGERS, and DOCTOR WHO, and SHERLOCK, and TUMBLR, and argh.) BUT for the holidays this year, since I'm broke, I'm giving all of my friends fanfic requests and my friend Hannah (or ChibiAnimeFreak, as she's known here) requested that I start posting this. And writing it again. So here we are.**

**(By the way, Hannah's also beta'ing this, because she's awesome. You should go check her stories out. She has an **_**actually finished**_** Spamano high school AU that's indescribably cute.)**

**ANYWAY, WITHOUT FURTHER ADO … THE STORY ITSELF!**

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**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES  
1. Sunshine Song (Prologue)**

Sometimes the sun shines on other people's houses and not mine,  
Sometimes the clouds paint the sky all gray and it takes away my summertime,  
Somehow the sun keeps shining upon you while I struggle to get mine,  
If there's a light in everybody, send out your ray of sunshine.

_Mamá,_

_You hate me now._

_No, don't try to deny it. You've screamed that I'm an abomination of nature enough times for me to get the message._

_I guess it makes sense. After all, I __did__ do something completely against your beliefs. They used to be my beliefs, too, but … I don't know any more._

_I suppose it never occurred to you that I'm not ashamed of what happened. Why should I be ashamed of the most wonderful experience I've ever had in my entire life?_

_This is the part where you laugh at me for being young and stupid. Well, guess what? I __am__ young and stupid, and proud of it._

_I'm going to keep being young and stupid - just you watch._

_I used to love you, Mamá, really. I used to look up to you, as though you were the sun and I was only a little planet, lucky to catch a few chance rays of warmth. You used to be my hero._

_I suppose you never thought about that when you treated me like a piece of garbage._

_Thank you, Mamá._

_You helped me to realize I don't need you to be my sun. I can be my own._

_She spits on me. He won't even look at me. They snicker as I pass by. You hate me._

_There is nothing left for me here._

_Oh, well. Your loss._

_I've got a backpack, a guitar, a hundred bucks, and my own talents. That's all I need to find my happiness._

_Good luck finding yours._

Adios_, Mamá._

_The boy who was your son._

Antonio Fernandez Carriedo taped the letter to his mother's wine cooler. That way, she'd be sure to see it when she woke up in the morning.

He took one last look around the apartment that held three years of memories he'd rather forget. They were bottled up, stored in the discarded pizza boxes, the empty beer bottles, the faded couch cushions, the blank walls, the table stained with more than just tomato juice.

They were the ties keeping him here. He stared at the memories - at the faces, the names, the experiences. He stared at them until he could see past them. Until he could see that the strings he had once believed to be iron cables, unbreakable by even the strongest of men, were truly nothing but tiny threads, able to be pulled apart with the tiniest tug.

Antonio slipped his backpack over his shoulder, picked up his old guitar, and headed out into the morning.

He made sure to close the door quietly behind him - his mother was sleeping off a hangover, after all. Wouldn't want to wake her.

"_Adios_," he whispered, smiling as though at a private joke.

_Snip. Snip. Snip-snip. Snip-snip-snip-snip-snip._

It was raining outside - but just barely. The sun was rising; it would be king of the sky in a few hours.

_How fitting_, he thought.

I wanna walk the same roads as everybody else, through the trees and past the gates,  
Gettin' high on heavenly breezes, makin' new friends along the way.  
I won't ask much of nobody, I'm just here to sing a song,  
And make my mistakes look gracious, and learn some lessons from my wrongs.

"_So, what the hell is it this time?_

"_Do you … D-do you …"_

"_Come on, spit it out. I don't have all day."_

"_D-d-do you still … still like me?"_

"_Oh, Lovino, I always knew you were stupid, but I never realized you were this stupid."_

"_Wh-what?"_

"_I never liked you. Honestly, how could anyone like you, you little freak? You make people feel worse about themselves just by being around."_

"_Then … then why …"_

"_Why did I pretend? Isn't it obvious? To get into your sister's pants."_

"… _Oh."_

"_Yeah, now you get it, you moron. Felicia is everything you aren't – cute, peppy, not cursing and pissed off for no good reason all the fucking time, and a total babe."_

"_But … She's taken."_

"_You think I don't know that? You think I'm not cursing your father for not beating the lesbian out of her?"_

"_Well, no, but …"_

"_But why didn't I break up with you when she started dating that German bitch? See, you're so stupid, I can even predict what you're going to say next. Loser."_

"_Um, but why?"_

"_Well, you see, my friend and I had this bet going, on how long it would take you to figure it out. I lost - thought it would only take you a couple of months. Clearly, I thought you were smarter than you actually are, and that you had a better sense of your total worthlessness as a person … If you can even be called a person …"_

It was raining outside. Lovino Romano Vargas could hear it pounding on the roof of his bedroom in time to the pounding of his fists on his pillow.

He was cursing anything and everything he could think of: the rain, his bed, his friends, his family, the bastard who had pretended to like him, the world full of bastards just like that one, himself for not realizing it sooner … himself for letting what had just happened happen … his pride in himself … his confidence … his bravery … _himself_, in general.

"_You make people feel worse about themselves just by being around."_

_Well, there's a simple solution to that, _Lovino told himself, _stop being around. Stop letting them be around you. Stop … Stop … Stop …_

_You aren't good enough. You'll never be good enough._

_You'll never be as good as Felicia._

_Stop trying._

_It's useless._

_Nobody will ever love you for who you are, Lovino. There's nothing in you worth loving. There's nothing in you except anger and pain, hatred and fear._

_So, stop it._

_Stop loving. Stop feeling. Stop looking._

"Just STOP!" he screamed into his tear-soaked pillow, feeling as though he had nothing left to live for.

"Stop," he whispered, feeling as though he had nothing left to feel.

"Stop … Stop … Stop …"

There was a knock on Lovino's door. "_Fratello_," called the voice of the sweetest girl in the world, "are you okay? I heard you screaming, _ve_ …"

"Go away," Lovino replied weakly, his voice muffled by his pillow. He didn't want to talk to anyone right now - he had to practice not feeling anything - least of all the person who had inadvertently caused his problem.

"But, _Fratello,_ I can tell you're hurting, _ve_, and I don't want you to go through it alone~," the girl said.

"Just get the fuck away from me," he shouted, suddenly angrier than he'd even been in his entire life. How dare she try to help heal a hurt _she_ had caused?

"I fucking _hate_ you, Felicia," he almost screamed at her, letting all of his insecurities and fears out to penetrate the closed door and pound down upon the one person he had never been able to blame before.

The door creaked open and a flaming read head of hair appeared hesitantly in its wake, followed by a worried, but sympathetic expression - because of course she knew he didn't mean it.

Lovino felt the mattress sink a little as she sat down beside him. He couldn't bear to look at her, or let her (or anyone) see him in such pain, so he buried his head beneath his blankets the way a turtle hides from danger in its shell.

"I know what happened with you and Sadiq," Felicia said softly, her voice so kind and beautiful, no wonder Sadiq wanted her and not him.

Her brother didn't respond.

"It's not your fault, _Fratello,_" she continued. "I know you're going to believe it's your fault, but it isn't."

"Isn't it?" Lovino asked meekly, still not looking up. "I mean, this wouldn't have happened if I wasn't such a … such a fucking terrible person."

"But you _aren't_ a terrible person!" Felicia protested, shocked by her brother's sudden outburst of self-deprecation.

"Yes, I am," he argued, a sob audible in his voice. "I'm stupid and ugly and I'm always angry at every-damn-fucking-thing ... Mama said I'd never be happy, and _he_ said I made people feel worse just by being around. I'm starting to think maybe they were right."

Lovino hated confessing his insecurities like this. He'd heard it said that one always felt better after "letting it all out", but, for him, that didn't seem to work at all. In fact, the opposite, was true – the Italian felt as though, having drained all of the bad from himself, he had no way to find good to replace the space the bad had left.

He felt as though he was caught in the rainstorm outside, with no umbrella, no knowledge of where to find shelter, and no hope of the sunlight ever appearing again.

Lovino suddenly realized that his sister was talking - she had been, perhaps, for a while.

"… and you _are_ a good person, Lovino. You're kind and generous and funny and you can always make me smile -"

"It's pretty easy to make you smile, _Sorella_," he interrupted Felicia, his voice hard and bitter.

"Yeah, but you can _always_ do it, _ve_~!" she reiterated, determined to make her brother see sense. "You're an amazing person, and anyone who can't see it is stupid, and anyone who tries to hurt you for it is a … a … a meanie poopy-head!"

Lovino tried to argue, but she wouldn't let him.

"And, someday, someone will come along who sees and loves you for the beautiful person that you are, and you'll learn how to become that true self and love that person, and live _happily ever after, ve ve ve_~!"

"Yeah, happily-ever-afters, fairy-tale endings, perfect lives," Lovino muttered, so quietly Felicia could barely hear him. "Wish I had one of those. I could sell it for a fucking fortune."

"They aren't as uncommon as you'd think," Felicia replied.

Lovino rolled his eyes at this, and was clearly thinking of a good comeback, but he wasn't crying any more, and his depression seemed to be greatly relieved from earlier, as though a weight bound to his back wasn't as heavy as it used to be.

Considering her work there to be done, the Italian girl tiptoed out of the room, leaving her brother alone to ponder what she'd said, and wallow in his marginally-less-miserable misery.

But she didn't get out quickly enough, because she could still hear his painful ultimatum:

"Easy for you to say, Felicia - at age fifteen, you've already got one. But me? For people like me, fairy-tale endings are just that: fairy tales. Something we read about and dream about but never actually get."

You should look as good as your outlook, would you mind if I took some time,

To soak up your light, your beautiful light, you've got a paradise inside.

I get hungry for love and thirsty for life, and much too full on the pain,

When I look to the sky to help me, and sometimes it looks like rain.

One of the most amazing things about the human race is that we chose our own destinies.

You can blame fate, genetics, God, or some other "higher power" all you want, but the truth Is that you are responsible for yourself. Neither your successes nor your failures would happen if not for your decisions.

Life is a road that you must travel without a GPS - or even a map. Where does it lead?

Well, that's up to you.

One rainy morning, two boys decided to abandon the paths they were traveling - one for a path that seemed freer and the other for a path that seemed safer.

They would be long paths, full of potholes, speed bumps, and muddy ditches. And they would be winding paths, with so many twists and turns that anyone not paying close attention while driving along them would get _seriously_ carsick.

But those paths, with a certain combination of turns, smiles, and kind actions, could converge to lead those two boys to the one thing both of them were searching for:

A happy ending.

A person to travel their roads with.

_Sunshine._

If this little light of mine combined with yours today,

How many watts could we illuminate, how many villages could we save?

My umbrella's tired of the weather wearing me down,

But look at me now.

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**A/N: There are few things I love more than a review. (Even if it's a bad one. COME AT ME BRO. B-|)**


	2. Curbside Prophet

**A/N: So far, I'm keeping to my update schedule. That's always good, right? xD**

**Thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far! Enjoy chapter two, and have a happy new year. :D**

**(By the way, if anyone wants to rant about the recent Doctor Who Christmas special, shoot me a PM or something, because I'd be more than willing to rant with you. Freaking Moffat and his obsession with throwing people off of high places … Ooh, or if you want a link to it, I can provide that, too. ^^)**

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**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES  
2. Curbside Prophet**

_I'm just a curbside prophet with my hand in my pocket,  
And I'm waiting for my rocket to come._

Antonio had never thought it would be easy, but he'd never expected it to be this hard.

He'd thought that he could get by with just his music and his optimism—thought that if he found a city to park his Spanish ass in, a street corner to sleep on, a subway station to fill with his music, someone would eventually come along and say, "Hey, dude, you're pretty good. I think I've got a job for you."

But it had been five years and twenty cities, and that hadn't happened yet.

"Hey, 'Tonio, how much did you make today?"

Antonio looked up at six and a half feet of lean, mean, fighting machine, topped with a purple Mohawk, a sneer, and an armada of piercings—also known as Carlos, a fellow street rat.

"About ten bucks," the Spaniard replied. "Why?"

"You know why," the punk told him.

Yes, Antonio did know why, but he wasn't about to say it. Pissing off Carlos was much better entertainment than simple people-watching—especially when aforementioned people-watching usually earned him a healthy sampling of glares. (Antonio hated it when people glared at him; he liked it much more when they smiled.)

He smiled innocently (something he'd perfected in the past five years—the old ladies always felt sorry for the ones with the most innocent smiles.) "No, I don't, _lo siento._"

A hand flew out of nowhere, grabbed the Spaniard by the collar of his old, faded T-shirt, lifted him out of his sitting position, and pressed him against the frozen concrete wall of the abandoned subway station.

"Your money, dumbass," Carlos snarled.

Up close, he looked less like a person and more like a weasel. A scared, hungry weasel.

Antonio liked most people as a rule, but he couldn't stand weasels.

"Why, exactly, do you have a right to my money?" he asked.

The weasel was beginning to get aggravated—either this street rat was playing a game, he thought, or he was incredibly stupid. Either way, it was the sort of behavior that merited punishment. Carlos liked giving punishment.

"Because I'm bigger, stronger, smarter, and generally have more right to live than you do," Carlos explained, emphasizing his words with a couple of harsh punches to his victim's stomach. "So fork it over, faggot, before I have to resort to … less humane measures."

Before he could defend himself, the weasel found himself on the ground, staring up at a face transformed by the kind of hatred that can only be bred by years of life on the streets—the face of a coyote.

Coyotes could crush weasels any day of the week.

"You may be bigger than me _more natural speech_," Antonio said with the air of a teacher explaining an obvious lesson to his most stupid pupil, "but that's about all you've got going for you. You aren't stronger or smarter—or else you would have made some money yourself and wouldn't need to bully it from other people. And nobody—_nobody_—has any more right to life than anyone else. Did you get that, or do I have to kick it into your thick skull?"

"No, I … I've got it," Carlos whispered, wondering why he felt so scared.

"Good." Antonio turned and started to walk away, but suddenly stopped and added, "Actually, you know what, I take that back. Weasels who intimidate hardworking people into giving them money—weasels like you—don't deserve to live at all. You're lucky, Carlos. I was feeling merciful today."

Antonio gave five of his ten dollars to a young boy whose day's earnings had been stolen by Carlos, and used the other five to purchase a subway ticket across town.

_Y'see it started way back in NYC,  
When I stole my first rhyme from the M.I.C.,  
At a West End avenue at 63,  
The beginning of a leap year, February, '96.  
With a guitar picked up in the mix,  
I committed to the licks like a nickel bag of tricks._

Somehow, the street rat and his guitar found themselves in Times Square, pushed there by the crowds of excited subway-riders anxious to see what was possibly the most famous place in the entire US of A for themselves.

Antonio had been there before, of course, but that had been during the daytime—during a sunlight that seemed to blind him with its intensity, a sunlight he desperately wanted, but that wasn't his. Now the sky was dark, and it was man-made lights that were blinding him. The awe he felt in those around him was not for the sun, but for the advertisements, the shows, the artificial (but somehow more real) life that had conquered the darkness and drowned out the stars.

The massive billboards around him, reaching to the sky with their bright neon fingers, seemed to shout that anything was possible.

The people flocking to the shops, the shows, and the excitement they advertised seemed to believe it.

Antonio, of course, knew better. Anything was possible, sure, if you lived in a fantasy world of your own creation. Antonio had once lived in that world, but five years on the streets, five years of fights, starving children, apathetic "social workers," merciless bullies, and sights that could break a man's heart in two and then stomp on the pieces, had taught him that dreams were made to be crushed.

He was still searching for sunshine, but, now, "sunshine" meant a comfortable bed and a hot meal. Anything more was simply impossible, a waste of time to even think about.

Not paying attention to his surroundings (as usual), the Spaniard suddenly found himself in front of the entrance to a theater packed full but somehow still swallowing more people with every second. It wasn't an unusual sight in this area at this time of night, but something about this particular theater seemed … unusual. More charged, almost. As though the air carried an electrical current of some sort. Excitement, perhaps.

The glowing sign above the entrance read: "Enrique Iglesias, One Night Only."

_Oh, that kid,_ Antonio thought. He'd heard of the young superstar and regarded him with a mixture of envy and admiration—his roots seemed not so different from Antonio's, but he was a star, an idol, a real singer, and Antonio was merely a street rat.

Enrique Iglesias had Antonio's dream life.

Standing there on the sidewalk, staring up at the lights that blocked out the stars, the street rat shrugged his shoulders and turned to make his way to a side entrance.

_Might as well try to learn something._

_See, I'm a down home brother, redneck undercover,__  
With my guitar here, I'm ready to play.  
And I'm a sucker for a filly, got a natural ability,  
I'm geared to freestyle, look at my flexibility.  
Dangerous on the mike, my ghetto hat's cocked right._

The security guard at that side door was normally a laid-back, calm, friendly man, ready to help anyone outprovided it wouldn't get him in trouble. His easy smile and twinkling eyes did a lot to appease those intimidated by his gruff appearance—bald head, heavyset figure, tall stature, harsh features.

Tonight, however, he was anything but relaxed. Threats to lose his job if he failed to perform the highly improbable tend to do that to a person.

The man had been instructed to find a second guitarist to replace Rodrigo, who had come down with a sudden stomach bug hours before the performance. One of those hours remained for the guard to find a replacement, and time was running out faster than a rabbit faced with a huge grizzly bear.

It was no wonder that, when he spotted a handsome, young man with a guitar case in his hand loitering near his entrance, he completely disregarded the man's dirty, disheveled appearance to wave him over.

"Hey! You! With the guitar!"

The man seemed surprised to be addressed so directly.

"I-I didn't do anything, I promise!" he stammered nervously.

"I'm sure you didn't," the guard replied, smiling benevolently. "But that isn't important. Tell me, kid, can you play that thing?" He gestured to the guitar case.

"This?" The young man looked down at the object, as though just remembering he was holding it. "Yeah."

"Good!" The guard's smile grew wide. "Can you sing?"

"Um … Yeah …"

"Care to demonstrate?" the guard asked.

"Sure …" More than a little confused, the young man took out his precious instrument and strummed a little of the first song that came to mind:

"_I'm just a curbside prophet with my hand in my pocket,  
__and__ I'm waiting for my rocket to come._"

He stopped after a few seconds, a little nervous, to hear the sound of applause. The guard bore a strangely large resemblance to an excited chimpanzee.

"Can you speak Spanish?" he almost shouted.

"_Si, Señor,_" the guitarist answered, even more befuddled. "_Es mi idioma nativo__._"

"Well, I didn't understand a word of that, but it sure as hell sounded like Spanish. Come with me, Curbside Prophet," the guard said, taking the man by the arm and leading him into the building.

"_Qu … Qu__é_?!"

"You've just earned yourself a job working as the replacement backup guitarist for tonight's show. Congrats! It's a pretty big honor, not something for just anyone, y'know …"

_Well, look at me now, look at me now,  
Look at me now, now, now now._

Antonio knew they weren't cheering for him.

After all, who was he to feel this spotlight, brighter than any sunlight he'd ever known? Who was he to stand on this stage? Who was he to see these smiling faces? Who was he to hear this thunderous applause?

Just a street rat accidentally thrust into his first gig. Just a boy with a guitar and a voice who had absolutely idea what he was doing besides the chords and lyrics he'd been told to memorize (and, as a matter of course, has forgotten as soon as he stepped onstage). He was just a traveler on the road of life who had, he thought, continued straight ahead and discovered that he had, in actuality, taken a turn to the left.

Antonio knew they weren't cheering for him, but nothing was stopping him from closing his eyes and pretending they were. And, _Dios_, did it feel amazing.

"Do you ever get used to it?" he asked the drummer, later, during intermission. "The incredible feeling of hearing them cheer for you, I mean."

The man shook his head, grinning. "It's not something that anyone can get used to, _amigo_. Hey, are you _sure_ tonight was your first time ever performing?"

"_Sí_," Antonio answered. "Why?"

"I would never have guessed it," the drummer replied. "You looked like you belonged up there."

With a new surge of confidence instilled in him by the drummer's words, Antonio got back up on that stage and _acted_ like he belonged there.

And, well, he may have been imagining it, but he thought that maybe—just maybe—they clapped a little louder.

Just for him.

_Maybe I _can_ do this,_ the street rat thought.

He vowed that, someday, there would be a crowd twice this size, and they would be cheering for him.

It wasn't an impossible dream—not anymore.

_Well, you're never gonna guess where I've been been been,  
And I have no regrets that I bet my whole checking account,  
Because it all amounts to nothing up in the end.  
Well, you can only count on the road again,  
We'll soon be on the radio dial,  
And I been payin' close attention to the Willie Nelson style,  
Like a band of gypsies on the highway while  
I'm one man pushin' on the California skyline._

With the help of a recommendation from the drummer, Antonio landed a job as the guitar accompanist in a jazz nightclub downtown. Of course, they fired him upon discovering he was homeless ("if you want to keep working here, you've got to get a home before you give us a bad reputation, that we pay our employees so little they have to sleep on the streets"), but not before he discovered—or, more accurately, _re_discovered—that … well … this singing thing? He was actually pretty good at it.

He had some kind of instinct that drove crowds wild. Plus, he could learn any melody in minutes, any chord progression in seconds. He could improvise lyrics, melodies, or accompaniments on the spot. He could bust the right moves, roll with the right beats, swing the right body parts in the right ways. He was born to perform.

Antonio didn't have a stage yet, but he had confidence in himself and a dream to reach, and once you have those, the rest is easy.

The Spaniard blew his earnings on a used car practically free from an owner glad to be rid of it, and set off to find his stage.

It was out there somewhere, he just knew it. He could hear it calling to him, like it had a megaphone and was screeching, "Antonio Fernandez Carriedo! Get your _ass_ over here right this minute, or you're in _big_ trouble, _Señor_!"

… Actually, it sounded a bit like his mom. Strange.

Anyhow, A road trip was in order. The highway was Antonio's new street corner.

_Drive up the coast, I brag and I boast,  
'Cause I 'm pickin' up my pace and makin' time like space ghost.  
Raising a toast to the highway patrol with the most,  
Put my cruise control on coast.  
'Cause I'm tourin' around the nation on extended vacation,  
See, I got Elsa the dog who exceeds my limitation  
I say, "I like your style, crazy pound pup!  
"You need a ride? Well, come on, girl, hop in the truck!"_

Lili Zwingli was starting to think that running away from home had been a bad idea.

Actually, correction: it hadn't been a _bad_ idea; it had been a terrible idea, the sort of idea that can compare to that of choosing Hitler as the leader of Germany, the idea of letting Rebecca Black sing, or the idea of high school gym class. And she wasn't _starting_ to think so; she had been cursing herself for the past five years. (Or, more accurately, the past five minutes. Same difference.)

At first, running away had felt sort of satisfying. It was satisfying to leave Vash a note explaining precisely what she thought of his rules, his curfews, his expectations, his dictatorial view of his role in her life. It was satisfying to ride out of a sleeping city on her beloved bike, guided only by her knowledge, the stars above, and a map borrowed indefinitely from Vash's car. It was satisfying to feel the wind on her face, her back, her arms, lifting her up as though helping her to fly when she coasted down a hill—to almost hear it whisper, "Free."

It was satisfying to be in control of her life.

But now, hours later, alone on an empty highway at four o'clock in the morning, Lili wasn't so satisfied. The realizations came slowly at first, then faster and faster, each one like a whack on the head: _I should have brought more food. I should have brought more money. I should have worn better shoes. I should have worn a backpack, not a shoulder bag. I should have brought a map that showed more than just downtown Philly. I should have worn pants. I should have brought a flashlight. I should have slept more before leaving. I should have figured out where I was going before I started going there._

_I should have thought this through._

It was too late now, of course. Lili was in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to go—no relatives (except Vash), no friends (whose houses Vash wouldn't know to search for her in), no home (since Vash's didn't count anymore.)

Or … did it? The runaway could probably find her way back; it wasn't like she couldn't turn around and ride in the opposite direction until she found the right exit. If all else failed, she could call 9-1-1 and ask the police to bring her home, they'd—

No, what was she thinking? She couldn't go back. She couldn't face him. She couldn't stand him. She _hated_ him.

… Right?

Making an important decision while riding a bike in the dark was not a wise idea, as Lili soon discovered when she crashed into the metal barrier on the side of the highway and toppled over onto the hard, unmerciful concrete.

Upon examination, it was clear that one of the bike's chains had been completely knocked off of its gear and was twisted around kind-of painfully, something that Lili, completely and totally _not_ a bike expert, had no idea how to fix.

_Great,_ she thought. _Now my bike's broken. I have no way of going back, even if I wanted to. Lili, you are a frickin' _genius.

_Nobody is going to save you,_ the runaway continued to berate herself. _Who would save you? What idiot would be around on a highway __in Nowhere, Pennsylvania__ at four o'clock in the morning? Oh, wait, I forgot—you. Just you. Vash isn't here to save you this time, Lili … Nobody is …_

So, of course, someone was.

"_Se__ñ__orita,_ are you all right?" asked a voice from the direction of the highway.

Lili turned to see a strange man peering at her through the rolled-down window of an ancient Volkswagen Beetle, its color impossible to discern in the pale light of extremely early morning. He looked dirty, like the kind of man one sees begging on street corners, but, at the same time, kind, like the kind of man who would give that beggar a hundred bucks and a hot meal. His large eyes (of undetermined color, also because of the early morning) were filled with concern, but he was smiling. The smile seemed to say, "It's okay. I won't hurt you_._" It was a nice smile.

But Lili had been trained to a) not trust strangers and b) be strong.

She smiled weakly back. "I'm fine, thanks."

Antonio looked at this girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, on the side of the interstate. He saw closely cropped, light-colored hair, tucked under a baseball cap. He saw a large hoodie topping a plaid, schoolgirl-style skirt. He saw enormous eyes of the Bambi variety and a delicate face that gave him the urge to just _protect_ its owner. He saw a determined expression in those eyes, the kind of expression that said its owner could protect herself, the kind of expression that lead armies to victory.

_What sort of strength does this girl have?_ he wondered. _What sort of strength does she have, to look at me and say, "I'm fine," almost like she believes she means it?_

"Listen," Antonio said. "I may not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but I know that young girls on the sides of highways at—" —he checked his watch— "—four-thirteen in the morning usually aren't fine."

"Well, I'm not the usual young girl," Lili replied.

"You know, you're right," Antonio agreed. "The usual young girl doesn't run away from home, does she?"

The girl gasped. "How did you …?"

Her fellow runaway shrugged. "I recognized the signs. It seems like just yesterday that I left a note by my mother's beer stash … That was five years ago, haven't been back since …" He gazed off into the distance, feeling nostalgic for that feeling of power and satisfaction he'd had when he ran away.

Lili was now seriously curious as to who this guy was, and couldn't stop the thought from plaguing her: would she end up like this, dirty and driving a car older than she was on an interstate at four o'clock in the morning,if she actually kept running?

"Now, why did you leave?" Antonio asked.

She sighed. "It's my brother, Vash. He's fifteen years older than I am. Our parents died when I was five, and he pretty much raised me. He feels like he's … responsible for me, you know?"

Lili didn't know why she felt as though she could tell this strange man her life's story. It was odd, but something in his manner said that she could trust him. Lili had always been an easily trusting person. It was one of the things Vash had lectured her about the most.

She noticed that, somehow, she didn't know when, the man had parked his car on the shoulder of the road and climbed out to sit beside her, close enough for comfort but not close enough to be creepy.

"… so protective. Over-protective. He wouldn't let me sleep over at a friend's house, wouldn't even let me go over unless he knew the parents, wouldn't let me do anything by myself, even walk a quarter of a mile to the convenience store by my school … I just felt … trapped. Like my whole life was inside of a box, where I did nothing but read, study, and listen to my brother's lectures. It's just not what I want! I want to help people, see. I know it sounds cliché, but I want to make a difference. I really do. But how will I ever be able to do _anything_ if I'm a prisoner in my own home?"

Lili buried her head in her hands and let it hang there, as though if she hid inside herself long enough, the answers would find her.

Unfortunately, they wouldn't—but the man beside her could help her find them.

"It sounds to me," he said, "like your brother just wants you to be safe. He clearly loves you very much. He just needs to learn to trust you more. That could be easily fixed with some honest conversations and compromises, though. You don't need to run away. Living on the streets isn't fun. Take it from a veteran. I mean, you could do it," he added, remembering her "I'm fine" from earlier, "but you don't want to. Believe me—sometimes, safety, love, and containment is better than hardship, loneliness, and freedom."

The girl thought about that. True, she resented Vash, but … When it counted, had he ever been anything but kind to her? Hadn't he always accepted all of her stupid gifts—even the really lame ones, like those matching pink pajamas she had once sewn for them? Hadn't he always participated in her tea parties … helped her with her homework … tied her hair ribbons for her?

Did she really want to run away from all of that?

"Why did _you_ run away?" she asked the no-longer-quite-so-strange stranger.

"It's a long story," Antonio said. "Why don't I tell it to you on the ride home?"

She thought for a minute, then turned to him and smiled—sweet and innocent and joyful. "Okay."

"Where _is_ home for you?"

"In Philadelphia. I can direct you there once we're off the highway."

"Oh … huh."

"What?"

"That's one city I haven't been to yet. There aren't many of them left."

"Who _are_ you, anyway? I don't mean to be rude, but … I've been wondering."

"Antonio Fernandez Carriedo's my name, but they call me the Curbside Prophet."

_Hey, he-e-ey, something's different in my world today,  
They changed my traffic signs to a brighter yellow._

Lovino Vargas had decided to call the man the Curbside Prophet, because that was all the bastard seemed to sing about.

Every single fucking day, when Lovino stomped past the corner of Fifth Avenue and Gaudi Street, _he_ was there.

He would be sitting on the cold cement sidewalk, pressed up against the stone wall of the office building dominating that part of the street, huddled up in himself like a turtle without a shell. He wore ragged clothes that had probably been new in Lovino's great-grandfather's time, had nothing to protect him but his old, barely-functioning guitar, and possessed no wealth except the measly coins generous passers-by (a group that never included Lovino) dropped into the case lying out in front of him, an always-hungry mouth begging to be fed, an unspoken plea for help.

The Curbside Prophet seemed to Lovino to have the harshest life imaginable, and yet he was always smiling.

He was waiting for his rocket to come.


	3. Who's Thinking About You Now?

**Sorry this chapter is a bit late – I was at this band festival thing all afternoon and evening (I just got home half an hour ago) so I didn't get a chance to post it before now.**

**This chapter is actually one of my favorites of the chapters I've planned and/or partially written so far, not just because the song is one of my favorites (IT IS SUCH AN ADORABLE SONG I DON'T EVEN), but also because the last part of the chapter is the first part of this story I ever wrote. It's finally getting posted, after waiting over a year, being edited many times, and even changing songs! It's like the fetus of this story that grew into a baby story and now, finally, almost an adult story … He grew up so fast~!**

…

**Anyway, enjoy the chapter. :)**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES  
3. Who's Thinking About You Now?**

_Who'd care enough to send you flowers,  
That you could call at all hours,__ a__nd give your love to?__  
__Somebody must believe, if they could see what I see,__  
__If they haven't, they will__, b__aby they all will._

_THUMP._

"_Dio_, Felicia, are you okay?" Lovino Vargas asked, staring at the figure of his younger sister with concern.

The redheaded girl blinked lazily at him from the front step of _Il Stomaco Felice_, her grandfather's restaurant. "_Veee_~?"

_She just tripped and fell flat on her goddamned face at eight in the fucking morning, and she's _fine_, _Lovino thought. _Of _course_._

Muttering about stupid, clumsy sisters that would die if he didn't watch out for them, he extended a hand to help her up.

"_Grazie__, _Lovi~," Felicia chirped, prancing inside the restaurant with an unhealthy amount of cheerfulness for the time of day, leaving her brother to examine the item that had tripped her.

The item that had tripped her being … A large bouquet of flowers addressed to Aldrich Beilschmidt.

_Of fucking course._

"Oi, Aldrich," Lovino hollered into the back recesses of the building. "Someone sent flowers for you."

An exasperated sigh was audible as Aldrich made his way to the front of the restaurant, wiping his hands on his simple gray apron as he went. He was a solid, stable sort of man – more of a rock molded into a man, really, with his long silvery hair, his simple clothes in earthen colors, his expressionless gray-gold eyes, and his constant not amused expression. He was usually either nonplussed, irritated, or (rarely) terrifyingly angry. If he was happy, then it didn't show – or it showed as irritation. Lovino often wondered how Aldrich and Roma – as enthusiastic and emotional at seventy-five as he had been at fifteen – managed to make their relationship work, but then he figured that Aldrich probably grounded the Italian, giving him a shoulder to lean on when he was depressed, and Roma saw the German as a challenge, always trying to find new ways to get that little, ever-so-slightly-amused smirk to rear its head, even after they'd been married eight years.

Either that, or the sex was truly mind-blowing. (For a couple of old guys, they were both surprisingly fit.)

But as Aldrich picked up the flowers, read the note, and complained about how much unnecessary money Roma was spending – "We were talking on the phone for _five hours_ last night, and he sent me flowers yesterday _and_ the day before, one would think he'd apologized enough to me for going to Paris without me by now" – there was this tiny hint of a smile on his face, so Lovino thought his former theory was probably true.

"Oh, by the way, Lovino," Aldrich said, stopping before he headed back to the kitchen, "Roma and I have been thinking about giving Louise and Felicia our apartment above the restaurant, and moving to a place with a bigger art studio a few blocks away. Would that be okay with you?"

"Why the hell are you asking me?" Lovino asked, a bit baffled. "I'm not the one moving."

"Yes, but you'd be living all alone if Felicia moves," the older man explained. "And besides, the circumstances are such that I can't ask her just yet."

"Huh?"

"I'll ask her after her and Louise's lunch break … But I'd like to know your opinion now, if you don't mind."

Lovino considered the question. To anyone else, he'd say that what the hell, Felicia could move, why would he care, she spent all of her time either out with Louise or on the phone with her, anyway – but Aldrich was observant; Aldrich could tell what Lovino was really thinking; Aldrich knew that Lovino would miss Felicia if she moved, the same way Aldrich missed Roma when he went off on one of his art promotion trips (which were getting more and more frequent, as his art became more and more popular.)

So, yeah. Lovino _would_ miss Felicia if she moved. He'd miss hearing her chatter fill the space in their apartment from morning until night, and her bubbly joy lighting up the emptiness in his life, and her delicious pasta, and all of the stupid sibling rituals and secrets they had that he could never share with anyone else. And he'd be jealous of her, sharing an apartment with the girl she loved – because he knew she'd be much happier living with Louise than with him.

But Felicia deserved to be happy. She didn't need her brother dragging her down the way he had for pretty much her entire life.

"Yeah," Lovino said, "she can move. Whatever. I still don't see why you had to ask me first."

Aldrich rolled his eyes – he could see straight through Lovino, of course he could – and left, with a parting, "You'll find out what this is all about after her lunch break."

_Just when you suspect that life couldn't get harder,  
Something comes__ a__long and makes your dark day darker,__  
__The weight of it all falls on you._

During her lunch break, Lovino was in the kitchen, awaiting an order of chicken parmesan, when the call came.

_Felicia_, read the caller ID.

He pressed the talk button on his ancient Droid with a sigh. "What is it, _Sorella_? I'm kind of working, y'know."

"_Fratello! Fratello Fratello Fratello!_" The Italian girl sounded as though she was jumping up and down as she spoke. "Louise proposed!"

"Oh, that's grea – wait, _what_?!" Lovino interrupted himself as the news sank in.

"I know, isn't it amazing, _ve_~?" Felicia asked, completely misunderstanding his reaction. "I just wanted to call you and make sure you were okay with it, because, you know, you're my _fratello_and the closest family I have left, so I felt like it would be _right_ to have your approval, _ve_~, and –"

The girl continued to babble, but her brother was no longer listening.

Lovino remembered one time when he was little – six or seven, perhaps – and his mother brought him and Feli to a park near their house. Deciding to rebel against traditional rules of society, Lovino had taken it upon himself to climb up the long slide reaching to the wood-chip-carpeted ground from the highest point on the playscape. After what seemed to be hours upon hours (in actuality, more like ten minutes) of selfless toil, discovering the best places to grab onto the slide, the best ways to position his feet, the best pep talks to give himself before attempting the feat once more, the boy had finally been nearly at the top when – disaster. Felicia, unaware of her brother's heroic quest, had climbed up the stairs, and slid down the slide, effectively knocking Lovino to the ground before her.

When the young boy had complained of the great injustice to his mother, she had looked at him coldly and replied, "Well, that's what you get for trying to go the wrong way. Everyone knows that you go _down_ slides, not up them. You'll never get anywhere in life if you do things the opposite way of other people – you'll just get pushed to the bottom, the way you did just now."

Lovino had stuck his tongue out at her, then attempted to climb the slide again while Felicia had received compliments and a push on the swings for doing things the right way.

Now, years later, the Italian man thought that he shouldn't be surprised, really, that Louise had proposed to his sister. After all, they _were_ obviously, disgustingly (if you asked him), adorably (if you asked anyone else) in love. The event was inevitable.

Lovino was selfish for wishing Felicia would be dumped horribly by her longtime girlfriendand travel the path of heartbreak, bitterness, and mistrust along with him.

She was doing things the right way, wasn't she?

So, he would do as his mother had before him – reward her and punish himself.

"Felicia, it's okay, I get it," Lovino heard himself saying. "I'm fine with it. Accept, for _Dio_'s sake."

"Really, _ve_~?"

"_Sì_, really. I want you to be happy, and if Louise is what makes you happy … Well, I guess I can put up with her."

"_Grazie, Fratello! Grazie, grazie, grazie__!"Grrr…_

"_Prego__._"

As he hung up, Lovino felt himself get pushed down the slide again.

_Who's thinking about you now?__  
__If you were building a wall, who would tear it all down and pull you through?__  
__Who's thinking about you?_

Trudging home, much later that night, Lovino wondered what he would say if Sadiq proposed to him.

It was a stupid thought, of course – Sadiq had never really loved him; he knew that. But what if … what if he suddenly showed up, with a ring and an armful of flowers and pleas for forgiveness?

Nah. It would never happen.

That bastard was long gone, anyway. He'd left for college in New York City with his new girlfriend, Elizaveta, after he graduated, and hadn't been back to Philly since.

It was just as well, Lovino figured. He didn't need any reminders of how pathetic he'd once been.

Once been, right?

He wasn't pathetic any more. He was strong. He stood up to people. He had confidence. He was a fucking _badass_, damn it.

… Oh, who was he kidding?

Lovino kicked a conveniently placed street post, then cursed as an ache grew exponentially in his foot.

But he soon forgot the ache – and his unwelcome insecurities – as he turned the corner.

Because there he was – the Curbside Prophet in the flesh, leaning against the wall of the building, his guitar case lying empty in front of him, singing something about sunshine.

The Curbside Prophet had tanned skin marred with scars, unruly, walnut-colored hair that he kept tied back in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, and the most extraordinary eyes Lovino had ever seen. They were so bright, so brilliant, so green that they seemed to peer into his very soul and strip him until that soul was all he had left. They made the Curbside Prophet seem like an old man, though he couldn't have been more than a few years older than Lovino.

The man was clearly someone who hadn't had an easy life; he was living on the streets, playing the guitar for a few dollars, covered with a road map of scars. And yet he radiated hope, love, and joy in a way Lovino hadn't thought truly possible.

He was different from all of the countless other homeless people Lovino had encountered during his twenty-three years of urban life: he hadn't given up.

Lovino found it unbelievable – how could this wreck of a person be more optimistic than himself, a man with a steady income, a roof over his head, and tomatoes to eat?

It was unbelievable, it was impossible, it wasn't right, it wasn't _fair_, and yet …

Lovino had found himself going out of his way to, no matter which way he walked home, pass by the singer's corner. He had found himself looking forward to that moment each day, the moment when the Curbside Prophet's emerald eyes would land on him and he would feel a fleeting moment of hope. He had found himself wondering who the Curbside Prophet was, how he'd ended up on the streets, how he'd learned to play the guitar. He had found himself memorizing the man's happy songs and singing them to himself when nobody else was around.

The man had become the sunshine in Lovino's life.

Lovino tried not to look at the Curbside Prophet as he passed him now – the guy was just another beggar, he told himself – but he found himself walking more slowly, almost of his own accord, so that he had more time to listen to the music, the music that somehow, impossibly, seemed to be speaking to _him_:

"_Yeah, I know you're smoking, I've seen your fire__  
__I know in love you've been giving it up__  
__So do I qualify, qualify, qualify, qualify, qualify?"_

Once upon a time and far, far away, a young boy began to climb up a playground slide.

_I'm not so bad, honestly, _Lovino thought, smiling slightly. _I could be worse._

He was almost out of earshot of the Curbside Prophet when, suddenly, he turned, sprinted as he had never sprinted before, and fed the hungry guitar case a twenty-dollar bill.

The singer's "_muchas gracias"_ followed Lovino home, chased by the Italian's unspoken reply:

"_I_ should be saying that to _you_."

_I feel like starting something.__  
__I feel like calling off today to be with you.__  
__Yeah, I believe we all do something that's familiar like a déjà vu,__  
__Familiar like a déjà vu._

The next day was Wednesday – Lovino's day off.

There were a thousand different ways he could be spending it: sleeping, watching YouTube videos, channel surfing, working on his tomato plants, going to a movie by himself, shopping for clothes he didn't need, getting out his camera and searching for something worth photographing, researching for the wedding he'd probably end up doing most of the actual planning for, going to a bar and trying to pick up someone else as lonely as he was …

There were a thousand different ways he'd spent his days off before.

And, well, one way he hadn't. It had occurred to him late the previous night

_Who will be the one to listen when it's time to listen?__  
__Who will be the one to miss you when you've gone missing?__  
__Well, I do.__  
__Do I qualify, qualify, qualify, qualify, qualify?_

And then, the sun wasn't shining any more.

Lovino stared at the ambulance as though his world was shattering, and the ambulance was the hammer that was pounding it.

Two nondescript people in hospital uniforms – one a short, stout man and the other a medium-built woman with cropped, dark hair – were lifting a third person into the back of their ambulance.

That third person was the Curbside Prophet.

_Lovino's_ Curbside Prophet.

"No," he whispered.

A tiny part of him wondered why the fuck he cared so much, but it was quickly swallowed by the rest of him, which was screaming in pain that its sun was being taken away, and _that was not allowed, __Goddamn__ it._

Lovino rushed forward to the truck, probably looking like a maniac but not particularly caring.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded.

"Who're you to ask us that?" the man countered.

"We're taking this man to the hospital," the woman explained when Lovino seemed unable to come up with an adequate answer. "We got a call that he collapsed out of starvation."

"Is he …" Lovino began, not wanted to say the word for fear of making its meaning come true.

"Dead? No," the woman said, "but he might be soon. Judging by his condition, it's surprising that he's lasted this long."

Lovino felt his body sway, as though he had no control over it. He had known that hobos often perished, of starvation or drug addiction or gang wars – his city wasn't exactly the kindest – but he'd never really considered that it would happen to _his_ hobo. The singer had seemed too optimistic, too bright, too joyful to be killed by something so mundane.

He shook his head violently. "No. He won't die. He's too determined to die."

"How do you know? Do you know him?" the other man asked.

Lovino flushed. "Well … no …"

"Then how do you know how determined he is?"

"I just _know_, okay?"

"Okay …"

Lovino glanced from the incredulous faces of the hospital staff to the unconscious body halfway lifted into their ambulance. It looked so small and helpless without its owner's powerful personality inhabiting it. It wasn't right. Lovino wanted it made right again.

He wanted his sunshine back.

"I'm taking him to my apartment," he heard himself say.

_When you're sleeping, darling when you're next to me,__  
__I scan you like a credit card, connecting freckles like I do the stars.__  
__Yes ma'am, yes ma'am, yes ma'am,__  
__I am thinking about you._

Lovino Vargas was beginning to question his sanity. After all, he'd just spent a good half hour convincing a couple of hospital workers that the best place for a _complete stranger_ who was _almost dying of starvation_ was _in Lovino's home_, not in a hospital. Lovino didn't care about complete strangers. He didn't care, in general, as a rule.

So, why had he been so adamant that the Curbside Prophet should go home with him?

Lovino remembered the argument as he paced around his apartment, trying to figure out what to do with this man now sleeping in his spare bedroom.

"_Are you a doctor?"_

"_No, but I'm CPR-certified. And I know doctors. I know a hell of a lot of doctors."_

"_Okay, but are you qualified to take care of this man?"_

"_Yes! Yes I fucking am!"_

"_Um …"_

"_It can't be that hard to nurse a person back from starvation, can it? You just have to feed him some good food, and I can sure as hell do that!"_

"_Well, no, you need medical training, and –"_

"_Okay, then, I'll Google it, or call one of my many doctor friends."_

"_We really should take him to the hospital –"_

"_Look. This guy was living on the _streets_. Do you honestly think he has any health insurance to pay for hospital treatment?"_

"_He might be eligible for free healthcare –"_

"_Might. That's great. The guy's dying and he _might_ be eligible for free healthcare. And then what, huh? He goes back to living on the streets and starts starving again? But me, I'll take care of him, and I know a place where he can get a job. I can do a much better job than any government hospital at getting this guy back on his feet."_

"… _Why do you care so much about him, anyway? You told us yourself you don't even know this guy."_

"_I … um … I-I … I w-want … I want to do something good in my life. I'm twenty-three, and I have yet to amount to much of anything, so I want to make up for all of the good deeds I haven't done. Repent, I guess. And this guy … This Curbside Prophet … From what I've seen of him, he's a good person, and he doesn't deserve what's happened to him, so I want to help him. Is that really too much to ask, you annoying bastards?"_

In retrospect, Lovino wondered where those words had even come from. _"I want to make up for all of the good deeds I haven't done_"? Who said that, and how had he gotten control of Lovino's voice?

Somehow, Lovino's pacing had brought him into the guest bedroom, and his gaze landed on the bed. The Curbside Prophet was scrawled unconventionally across it, on top of the blankets because Lovino hadn't had the strength to tuck him in, a little bit of water dribbling out of his mouth from when Lovino had given him a bottle of water that he'd drunk too quickly. His face was unbelievably childish in repose – naïve and innocent, as though the man had no idea the danger he was in. He didn't appear to be recovering from starvation; he simply appeared to be sleeping, without a care in the world.

Something about that face drew the Italian in closerto examine what he'd found so appealing about it before. It was a nice face, certainly – to underplaymatters – but it was scraggly, with that little, scratchy beard and that unkempt, untrimmed hair framing it, and Lovino couldn't remember why he'd been so hell-bent on rescuing this man.

But then, a hint of a smile crept across the sleeping man's face, as though he was dreaming about something pleasant, and Lovino remembered.

It was that smile, a smile happier than anything Lovino had ever seen (much less felt) in his life. That was why Lovino had wanted to bring this man to his apartment, to keep him for himself.

A sudden feeling of protectiveness came over the Italian, a sort of motherly instinct usually only reserved for members of the feminine sex, and he found himself bringing the covers up around the sleeping man's body, gently tucking him in the way a mother tucks in a young child.

Lovino didn't care, in general, as a rule – but surely, he could make an exception, if it meant he got to see that smile again.

_When our two hands are linked together with an ampersand,__  
__It's my kind of diagram.__  
__When our sore eyes are lined up side by side,__  
__Well, I'm a happy man,__  
__Yes, I'm a happy man.__  
__Yes ma'am, yes ma'am, yes ma'am,__  
__I am thinking about you._

When Antonio Fernandez Carriedo woke up, he wondered if he was in heaven, because this was too good to be true.

He was still wearing the clothes that had become his uniform over the past five years – ragged jeans, holey sweatshirt, ratty t-shirt – but that was the only thing familiar to him. He was lying in a bed, a simple bed, not too soft but not uncomfortable, with a bright red comforter that somebody had pulled up to his chin. Sunshine poured into the room from huge windows on the far side, half-cloaked with curtains that matched the bedspread. The light was so bright, so happy, and so hopeful that Antonio thought it might blind him.

On a small table to his right were his guitar (okay, two familiar things, then) and a basket of tomatoes. Rich, ripe, round, _fresh_ tomatoes.

The last tomato he'd eaten had nearly gotten him arrested.

His intense hunger suddenly reasserting itself with a kick to his stomach, Antonio reached out and grabbed a tomato from the basket, then proceeded to devour it like a starving man eating for the first time in days – which, in fact, he was.

It was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted …

"Hey, bastard, don't eat so fast! You'll give yourself indigestion or something else equally shitty!"

… but not as delicious as the man currently striding into the room.

He wasn't very tall or very muscular, but he was sturdy and well-built. He seemed to radiate antagonism – but, somehow, that made him endearing, not annoying. His hair was a deep mahogany reddish-brown, hanging in uneven bangs over his face with a random curl Antonio just _had_ to yank escaping from the top of his head.

And his face was possibly the most beautiful face Antonio had ever seen. He recognized it – he remembered seeing it pass by him every day for a couple of weeks in the early afternoon and then again late at night – but he had never before noticed how adorable it was.

The man's face was rounded, with cheeks as soft as a baby's. And yet, at the same time, it had angles – the sharp point of a chin, the long line of a nose. Then, the eyes … They were large and deep, the sort you could fall into and never return from. They were the color of the leaves of a flower, with sprinkles of sunshiney gold sparkling in them as they caught the light.

As Antonio stared, the man's face turned a bright red, the exact shade of the tomato he had been eating moments before.

Antonio wanted to pull that man onto the bed and make fierce, passionate love to him, kiss him and squeeze him and know him and invade him and claim him in the name of Spain …

But the last time he'd tried something like that, it had landed him on the streets.

So, he settled for a question instead.

"Are you a tomato angel?"

"… The fuck?"

"I mean," Antonio quickly clarified, "you look like a tomato, plus you're wearing white, plus this must be heaven, since I'm pretty sure I'm dead, so, um, you're a tomato angel."

The man laughed, and Antonio wondered if it was possible to get hard just by listening to a laugh. "Seriously? I think the starvation must've gone to your head, dumbass."

"_Qu__é_?"

The man sat down on the end of the bed and began to count flaws in Antonio's logic on his fingers, the long, callused fingers of a hard worker.

"First, this isn't heaven – it's my spare bedroom. Second, you aren't dead. Third, I'm not an angel. I don't even _look _like one. A white T-shirt and jeans doesn't make me an angel. And, fourth, I don't look like a fucking tomato. Contrary to stupid-ass sayings, you aren't what you eat."

"Oh," Antonio said. Then, "Are you sure I'm not dead?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely positive."

"Oh," he said again. He then proceeded to empty the tomato he'd just eaten onto the floor.

"Damn you," the man exclaimed. "You got fucking tomato puke all over my fucking floor! I _told_ you not to eat so fast, damn it! Do you have any idea how long that'll take me to clean up?!"

"_Lo siento_," Antonio murmured, opening his eyes wide and morphing his face into the pity-inducing expression he'd perfected over the years.

The man sighed. "Fine, I'll make you some soup first."

"Tomato soup?"

"Is there any other decent kind of soup?"

"Well, I like chicken noodle, and minestrone isn't bad, and –"

"Shut the fuck up, bastard. It was rhetorical."

"Oh. … What does rhetorical mean?"

As Lovino Vargas stomped out of the room and into his kitchen, he could hear the former street rat singing a new verse to one of his old songs:

"_I want to be the one to help you ignore Mr. Loneliness peeking his head__ i__nto your door.__  
__I'm hoping you can feel me,__  
__I'm hoping you can feel me in your chest, chest, yeah."_

"Oi, bastard," Lovino called over his shoulder, "you're gonna have to do better than that if you want my _Nonno_ to hire you as a performer for his restaurant!"


	4. Make It Mine

**FOR THE RECORD, I BLAME THE LATENESS OF THIS CHAPTER ENTIRELY ON ANDREW GARFIELD'S BEAUTIFUL BUTT.**

**(The long explanation: The Amazing Spiderman came in the mail from Netflix today, and my sister and I basically dropped everything to watch it as soon as we got home from our piano lessons. And we got home at eight. Um. Oops. But it was worth it. Such a great movie, I can't even.)**

**By the way, Tuesday was ChibiAnimeFreak's (my beta's) birthday. So go wish her a happy birthday, because she's awesome.**

**Anyway, enjoy Antonio's and Lovi's late-night non-sexual escapades. (Sorry, the sexual ones don't come until later. Haha. Come.)**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES**

**4. Make It Mine**

_Wake up everyone,__  
__How can you sleep at a time like this,__  
__Unless the dreamer is the real you?__  
__Listen to your voice,__  
__The one that tells you to taste past the tip of your tongue.__  
__Leap and the net will appear._

Lovino awoke to a smiling face and a singing voice. There are worse ways to be aroused from sleep but, as was his nature, the Italian immediately spotted the negative in the situation (which, in this case, was the display of his alarm clock) and commented on it in the most negative way possible.

"You _bastard_! How _dare_ you wake me up at one o'clock in the fucking A.M.?! I should … I should … eat tomatoes in front of you for this terrible offense! Without letting you have any!"

The singing stopped, and the face—royal features, sparkling eyes of the brightest green, laugh lines, a smile wide enough to easily fit the entirety Russia into—pouted. "But Loviii~! How can you sleep at a time like this?! You can't!"

"Just watch me." Lovino buried himself under his covers.

The strategy didn't last long, though, as Antonio ripped the blanket off and yelled in his new roommate's ear:

"Guess what?"

Covering his ears, the Italian grumbled, "I don't fucking want to."

"Aw, but that's no fun~," the Spaniard exclaimed.

"Do I look like someone who cares?"

"Sí~!"

Lovino whacked Antonio in the head. "Wrong."

"Ow! Loviii~." Antonio winced, then frowned, saddened by the lack of excitement the other man was showing.

Suddenly, he brightened with an idea. "I know what I'll do!" he said.

"Enlighten me. I'm _dying_ to know," Lovino deadpanned.

Antonio, as oblivious as to sarcasm as he was to everything else (Lovino wondered how he had ever managed to survive on the streets) clapped happily. "Yay~!"

Lovino rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever."

"I'm going to …" A pause for dramatic effect … "Tell you anyway~!"

"Brilliant."

"I know, right~?!"

Antonio grinned, awash in his own self-confidence. Lovino attempted to get back into bed.

But Antonio would have none of that. He quickly grabbed the Italian, informing him that, "You can't go back to sleep—I haven't told you yet!"

Lovino rolled his eyes—again. They were getting tired. "Well, what the fuck are you waiting for, then?"

"Um, for you to listen?"

"I'm listening, trust me. One hundred fucking percent of my attention is on your idiotic annoyance, _Dio_ knows you don't deserve it."

"Okay~!"

"…"

"I still haven't told you yet, have I?"

"Nope."

"Oh …"

"…"

"…"

"TELL ME, DAMN IT!"

Suddenly frightened, Antonio hurriedly said, "Okay, okay, sorry! What it is is that I had a … um … what do you call it … Eureka moment!"

"…"

Lovino stared at him. This guy couldn't be serious. He was stupid, easily the most stupid person Lovino had ever met (and that included Felicia.) Even for a Spaniard—and they were _stupid_—he was stupid.

"And the fact that you had a Eureka moment required you to wake me up at one o'clock in the fucking morning?" Lovino asked slowly, enunciating each word clearly the way one might when talking to a slow child (which, honestly, Antonio was.)

The Spaniard grinned. "Sí~!"

"Why, exactly, is that?"

"Well, I have to tell _someone_ about my Eureka moment, don't I? And you were the closest!"

"It couldn't wait until morning?"

"But, Lovi, it _is_ the morning."

"Later in the morning, I mean. A more _normal_ time in the morning. _When I am not sleeping_."

"Ohhh … Well, then, no, it can't."

"Why the hell?!"

"Because I would have forgotten the Eureka moment by then, of course~! … Actually, I think I've already forgotten it … That's sad …"

Lovino sighed and banged his head against a nearby wall. He'd only been living with this guy for a few hours, and most of them the guy had been sleeping, and already, he was ready to impale him on a spike in a tropical area and leave him for the mosquitoes.

_I don't wanna wake before,__  
__The dream is over.__  
__I'm gonna make it mine,__  
__Yes, I, I'll own it.__  
__I'm gonna make it mine,__  
__Yes, I'll make it all mine._

The moon surveyed her kingdom.

Dark streets hid trash, graffiti, and all manner of filth. Stars twinkled faintly in the deep sea of the upper realm, distant keepers of the light and beautiful. The occasional light from a doorway or window or streetlight threw the small world underneath it into a kaleidoscope of light and shadow.

Everything looks better at night, because the dark conceals the bad in the world and the stars bring out the good. At night, while the world sleeps—that is the time to make your move, your choice, your life. Because if you wake them up, they'll be sure to hear you—and stop you.

As the moon passed her gaze over blocks and blocks of the city of Philadelphia, checking like any good ruler would, that everything was silent and holy, she at first found the night to be pleasant. All was in order; even the drunks and the druggies, the beggars and the hookers were asleep.

She sighed a happy sigh, proud of herself for maintaining the peace she loved so dearly.

But then, suddenly—

The silence was broken, torn, shattered, crushed to pieces with a thousand-pound hammer.

"Why the _fuck_ do we have to wander the streets at one o'clock in the fucking morning?!"

"Because, Lovi, I have to find my Eureka! I had it, but then it escaped me! It flew out the window! But I know it's out here somewhere—if we search enough, surely we can find it~!"

"'_We_?!' What is this '_we_?' I never agreed to any fucking '_we_.' And don't call me Lovi. It makes me sound like a fucking three-year-old, and all three-year-olds are assholes."

"First of all, if you never agreed to any '_we_,' then why are you here, Lovi? Second, Lovi is a cute name, for a cute person. And third, not all three-year-olds are assholes. I'm sure you weren't an asshole when you were three, Lovi~!"

"Um, you barely know anything about me, much less what I was like when I was little."

"Weelll~ … I know that you're kind, because you took me in even though you didn't know me at all. I know that you're generous, because you gave me tomatoes and fixed me some homemade soup, which you didn't have to do, and you haven't even mentioned payment yet. I know that you're easily embarrassed, in a cute way, because you were talking to this girl on the phone and you spent half of the conversation blushing like a tomato. I know that you're grumpy, because you swear all the time. I know that you're pessimistic, because you made that mean, negative stereotype about three-year-olds. And I know that you have a big heart, because even though you complained about me waking you up for no good reason, here you are~!"

"... Uh … Well … Erm … Come on, let's find that fucking Eureka moment, so that I can go back to bed."

The moon couldn't see much of the two men, from her perch high in the dark sky—the only aspects visible to her were their shadows, one tall and wiry, with a dancer's grace, and the other shorter and clumsier, hunched over as though ashamed of itself. The shorter man was pulling the taller one along, cursing and complaining, but with a barely detectable air of fondness, as though he didn't mind what he was doing nearly as much as he claimed.

The two of them certainly were making a huge ruckus, but they were cute, the way the shorter one was stammering and the taller one was laughing, and the way they were holding hands without even noticing it. And besides, this was interesting. The moon didn't get people wandering the city for the sole purpose of wandering the city that often, and she liked to savor it when she did.

They could disturb her peace for a few hours, she decided, sitting back with a bowl of popcorn.

_I'm gonna make it mine,__  
__Because I, I am open.__  
__I'm gonna make it mine,__  
__That's why I wanna show it._

They were crossing a street—who knew which one, they had lost track long ago—when Lovino suddenly halted, as though glued to the pavement, an expression of indefinable loathing on his face.

"Lovi–no," Antonio quickly corrected himself. "Lovino. What is it?"

"That streetlamp," the Italian said through gritted teeth, staring through narrowed eyes at the lamp in question. "It's _staring_ at me."

"Staring at you …" Confused and alarmed at the notion, Antonio eyed the supposedly evil object. It seemed to be a perfectly normal street lamp to him—black pole, about ten feet tall, with a normal while bulb on top, sitting at the corner of the street to which they were crossing.

"Lovino, I don't see anything odd about it," the Spaniard admitted.

"Of course you don't—you're an unobservant bastard—oh! There it goes again!" Lovino pointed at the streetlamp, which he had decided to name Ludwig. A horrible, German name for a horrible, (probably) German streetlamp.

"Ah~! I see it!" Antonio exclaimed. "Wait … What?"

"It's flashing on and off," Lovino explained. "Like it's daring me to punch its bastardly face in or something."

"Oh!" The Spaniard's face brightened with sudden understanding. "It's not staring at us—it's _winking_ at us! That's so _cute_~!"

A palm met a forehead with a loud smack.

"Only you could call a _street lamp_ cute, bastard."

_I keep my life on a heavy rotation,__  
__Requesting that it's lifting you up,__  
__Up up and away,__  
__And over to a table at the gratitude café._

They were passing a convenience store—one of those really useful, but really crappy ones that were open twenty-four-seven but never seemed to have the goods you actually want—when Antonio decided he was hungry.

"_Lovino_," he breathed, pressing his face up against the store window, his breath fogging up the glass. "Look at that! They have _chips_. Really _good_ chips. I haven't had chips like that in _ages_."

"Stop pressing your face up against that window, _idiota_," the Italian scolded, pulling the other man away from the window. "You don't know when it was last cleaned. And I don't know what you're trying to hint about—don't expect _me_ to buy you any chips."

And then Antonio turned around and gave Lovino the most downright irresistible puppy-dog eyes he had ever seen (and that included ones from Roma himself, who credited the success of his relationship with Aldrich _entirely_ on his puppy-dog eyes.)

And then Lovino remembered that Antonio had just been starving on the streets, and didn't have any money to buy his own chips, and when he said he hadn't had chips like that in ages, he really did mean _ages_.

So, of course, Lovino ended up buying his new roommate some chips. And some pretzels. And some Oreos. And some Gatorade. And some coffee. And some …

Well, basically, they bought out approximately half of the store, probably making the month of the bored teenage boy working there.

"_Gracias_, Lovi," Antonio exclaimed later, in between bites of junk food. "This is really good."

Lovino waved his hand dismissively, as though it was no big deal. "You'll have to pay me back later, you know."

The notion of payment brought Antonio's mind back to a topic he probably should have remembered sooner. "By the way," he said, "I never did thank you."

"For what?" Lovino asked.

"For taking me in. Feeding me. Letting me stay at your apartment. All of that. You … You saved my life, basically," the Spaniard admitted, "and I'm really grateful to you for that."

The Italian blushed fire-hydrant red. "You … You know, you're going to have to pay me back for that, too!" he stammered, unwilling to accept gratitude. "When you get a job, I mean. I know you can't right now …"

Antonio smiled, knowing that his thank-you hadn't gone to waste.

"B-by the way," Lovino said, "I was … I was wondering … Why …"

"_Sí?_ What is it?"

"Why do you … have so little money? I mean, you seemed like you were doing pretty well, what with your singing and all that … Your guitar case always seemed to be full to me … Not that I saw you very often, or anything," he added hurriedly, not wanting to reveal to the Spaniard how avidly he'd been watching him.

"Ah, well, that's true, I was making decent money," Antonio explained, smiling, "but I always gave most of it away to other people who needed it more … I suppose that's why I found myself with so little, in the end."

Lovino shook his head with a mixture of wonder and exasperation. "Of course, you gave your hard-earned money away," he muttered. "Stupid bastard."

_And timing's everything,__  
__And this time there's plenty.__  
__I am balancing,__  
__Careful and steady,__  
__And reveling in energy that everyone's emitting.__  
_

They were carefully treading the edge of a stone wall as though it was a tightrope (Antonio enthusiastically, Lovino reluctantly) when the Italian checked his watch for the first time since his rude awakening.

"Huh. It's three-oh-three," he said, almost to himself.

"Ooh, um … I wish someday, there'll be a crowd of a thousand people cheering for me!" Antonio exclaimed.

"What?" Lovino asked.

"Oh, well, I always make a wish when I find out that it's three-oh-three, four-oh-four, or some other time like that," the Spaniard explained.

_Well, that's not stupid and pointless at _all, Lovino thought, inner sarcasm at full blast. But—

"Hey, Lovi, you should make one, too! Quick, hurry, before it's three-oh-four!"

There was something about the look of eagerness on Antonio's face, like the face of a young child about to receive ice cream, that made it impossible to resist.

"I wish … I wish that, someday, my photographs will be as famous as the Mona Lisa," Lovino said hurriedly, looking down as though ashamed of his wish.

"You're a photographer?" Antonio inquired.

"Yeah, well, my _Nonno_ and _Mama_ and _Sorella_ all are—_were_, for _Mama_—painters," the Italian said. "But I've never been very good at painting, so I decided to be a photographer, instead."

"I think you'd be a great photographer, Lovino~."

"You know, a lot of people look down on photography. They say you're just capturing an image. What's so hard about that? But they don't get it. Photography is more than just taking pictures. It's about finding that perfect image, stealing it, and making it your own."

"Making it your own?"

"Making it your own."

Lovino suddenly realized what he'd been saying. He _never_ talked about photography to anyone, not even Felicia. He hoped Antonio didn't think he was weird for saying that.

Then, he wondered why he cared what Antonio thought of him.

"It's kind-of like making a cover of your favorite song, isn't it?" Antonio asked.

"Y-yeah," Lovino agreed.

_He's not making fun of me at all,_ he thought in wonder.

"_I'm gonna make it mine_," Antonio sang softly, trying out a new melody.

And they fell into companionable silence once more.

_Well, I don't wanna wait no more,__  
__No, I wanna celebrate the whole world.__  
__I'm gonna make it mine,__  
__Because I'm following your joy.__  
_

They stood on the edge of the city, overlooking the great Delaware River, watching two parallel universes: the sky above them and the reflection below. With the dark encompassing them, smothering them except for the two sets of stars, the two men felt as though it would be so easy to let go and fall into either one.

Neither man could admit to the other how much he wanted to.

"Hey, is that the Big Dipper?" Antonio asked after a minute.

"No, I think it's the little one, idiot," Lovino replied.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I see another one over there that's bigger, so, yeah, I'm fucking positive."

"But what if it's tricking us? What if it _wants _us to think that it's the Little Dipper, but it's really just a normal constellation that only wants to be a Dipper so bad it has to pretend?"

"… I'm not sure constellations can do that."

"Oh. Well. If you say so."

"I do say so."

Antonio examined the two Dippers, then put a hand up to his forehead and surveyed the sky like a navigator on a ship searching for land.

"You know," he said, "I always wanted to learn the constellations and stuff, so that I could navigate by the stars, the way the pirates did in olden days."

"But you never got around to it?" Lovino predicted.

"Yeah. Never got a chance."

"I could maybe learn it with you," the Italian suggested, hardly believing that he was actually _suggesting_ _doing__ something_ _voluntarily_ with _another person_. "Might be fun."

Okay, who was this stranger and did he do with Lovino?

"Sure, sounds great." The Spaniard's face was glowing with excitement, even in the darkness.

Another minute passed, then—

"Hey. Bastard."

"_S__í__,_ Lovi~?"

Lovino wondered when he'd agreed to that nickname.

"What do you think about the stars?"

"They're big balls of gas, millions of miles away~!"

"Okay, what do you think about the stars, _without_ quoting The Lion King?"

"… Okay, that's a hard one," Antonio admitted. "Can I just go with the Lion King quote? Please?"

"No."

"Aw, you're so meeeean~."

"You'll get used to it."

"Or I'll cure you!"

"In your dreams, idiot asshole. But seriously, what do you think?" Lovino asked quietly, almost as though he was afraid to hear the answer.

"Well, honestly," Antonio said slowly, "I don't know. I used to think they were like kindly old ancestors, looking down and smiling on me, willing to help me out in a pinch. But then, shit happened, and I thought, no. Clearly, nobody up there is watching out for me, 'cause if someone was, well, I would be … _someone_ right now."

"You _are_ someone, _maledizion__e_," Lovino told him, suddenly aggressive for reasons he didn't know. He turned towards the other man to glare at him like a bouncer who just won't let you in to the goddamned club. "You're the fucking Curbside Prophet. That's someone."

"I guess." Antonio sighed. "It's just … You know, I hoped I'd have accomplished more by now. I wanted so much, and I feel like somebody reached down and was all, like, 'Nope, sorry, dude, not for you,' and just _took_ it. And now, I have a guitar and a voice and nowhere to use them, except street corners."

Lovino thought about that, then said, "Yeah. Yeah, I know what you mean. Personally, I don't believe in stars or fates or destiny or … anything, really. Especially not _me_. I definitely don't believe in _me_. I believe that we people have the power to determine what becomes of us in life, and my decisions, my actions, and my fucking personality have lead me down the path I'm speeding on right now. It's not a good path, but I got myself here, and fuck if I haven't a clue how to get myself off. I'm on the freeway in the carpool lane and there are no exits in sight for miles and fucking miles."

Antonio looked at him—looked at this strange, adorable man, who held so much kindness but was convinced he was worthless. "I might be able to help you out," the Spaniard offered.

"I don't need your fucking help, bastard."

"But … You've helped me already. I owe it to you."

"Hmm."

After a minute or so of consideration, the Italian decided.

"Fine. Okay. Now shake on it, bastard."

"Okay~."

They shook on it.

"You know what I'm thinking right now?" Antonio asked a bit later.

"What, bastard?"

"The stars are evil, sadistic sons of bitches watching everything we do and laughing their big, gassy asses off."

"Not that different from the rest of the goddamned world, then, are they?"

"I guess not. Hey, do you think they have popcorn up there?"

"Can't have a fucking sadism fest without the popcorn. How do they get a popcorn machine up there, though, that's what I want to know …"

"Ooh, maybe they attach it to a whole bunch of balloons and let it float up~!"

"… You're a complete idiot."

"_Gracias_~!"

"… Not a fucking compliment …"

_And I am finally there,__  
__And all the angels they'll be singing,__  
__Ah la la la, ah la la, ah la la la la la love this!_

It was around five-thirty A.M. or so when the arrival of the rising sun reminded the two men that now might be a good time to start heading home.

The sunrise itself was beautiful—it was this palette of pale pinks and warm golds and barely-there oranges mixing and stirring until they combined into a huge, magnificent orb, rising into the sky like a promise of new hope—but Lovino honestly couldn't care less.

"We've been out for hours," he practically screeched, poking an accusing finger into Antonio's chest, "fucking _hours_, and we haven't found your Eureka moment or whatever it was, and we don't even know where the hell we are, because I forgot my phone at home because you made me leave so quickly, and you don't even have a phone!"

"_S__í_," Antonio replied, grinning like he didn't even care (because he didn't), "isn't it wonderful?"

"No, it fucking is not!" Lovino shouted. "I like to sleep! _Sleep_, not tramp around the city like some sort of weirdo on a quest."

"But Loviii~," Antonio protested, "isn't being a weirdo on a quest _cool_?"

"No, it fucking is no—"

Not heeding the other man's displeasure in the slightest, Antonio whooped for the sheer pleasure of being alive, and took off sprinting down the street.

"OI, BASTARD!" Lovino called after him. "WHERE THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING?"

"Back to the convenience store, to get a map," Antonio called over his shoulder, "and then back home, so that you can get your all-important beauty sleep!"

"That's … actually not a bad plan," Lovino told him, surprised.

"Yes, I somehow manage to come up with those sometimes! Now, come on!"

Lovino mumbled and grumbled and whined, but he followed. He claimed to be out of shape and one of the least athletic people on the planet, but he sprinted the entire way home. He claimed to hate running and normally avoided it like the plague, but he found something fun about it—something exhilarating about being the most alive thing in those empty, early-morning streets. He claimed to be a polite, gentlemanly Italian badass, but when he almost ran over a couple of joggers and an unsuspecting trash can, he didn't insult the innocents in the situation _or_ try to (badassly) apologize—he laughed. He claimed to despise waking up before noon when it wasn't absolutely necessary, but he wasn't complaining this morning. He claimed to be a terrible singer, and that he hated it when other people started singing around him without his permission, but when Antonio started belting out some stupid song he'd made up on the spot about how he wanted to make everything his, Lovino was _this close_ to joining in. He claimed to hate wasting time without a purpose, but he hadn't hated wasting these few hours.

In fact, as Lovino raced Antonio down streets and up roads, he didn't think he minded at all.

When they finally reached home and fell into bed as the sky was beginning to fully lighten, they had reached an unspoken agreement to never speak of that night again. But something of it still lingered—in the way they grinned at each other sometimes, and in the small wad of cash Antonio slipped Lovino a couple of weeks later, and in the book about astronomy Lovino bought for their one-month anniversary.

_Yes, I will make it all mine._


	5. Wordplay

**This story has a Tumblr! I made one for it because I didn't want to post chapters on my main blog (which isn't really a Hetalia blog at all) and also because I wanted a place to post these photos I have of the setting of this story. (Most of the places in the story are based on actual places in the French Quarter of Philadelphia, and about a year ago, while the story was still in the planning mode, I convinced my parents to let me walk around there for a couple of hours and take pictures. Yeah.) I'll post advance snippets of the chapters I'm working on, too. And perhaps some Spamano fanart, as well, just 'cause.**

**The blog's url is we sing we dance we eat tomatoes (without spaces) dot tumblr dot com. There isn't much there yet, but more is coming! Exciting, I know.**

**Anyway, enjoy chapter five. It has a massive amount of description. (Good description. I hope.)**

**[EDIT AS OF 1/25/13: The chapter is now beta'd. Yay, exciting.]**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES**

**5. Wordplay**__

_I've been all around the world, I've been a new sensation,  
But it doesn't really matter, in this g-generation.  
The sophomore slump is an uphill battle,  
And someone steals your product stream._

Lovino woke after three hours of sleep to the sound of a strange man humming from the direction of his bathroom.

One eye opened reluctantly to swiftly shut again, blinded by the bright sunlight pouring in from the window. The second waited another minute, learning from the first, then opened, taking in the bed, devoid of blankets, and the door to the hallway, half open.

The Italian groaned. Getting up did not agree with his life philosophy.

He was just about to fall back asleep when the humming suddenly grew louder—much louder.

"Fuuuuuuuuuhhhaaaaaaarghurg," he mumbled. (Translation: "Stop humming right this fucking second before I gag you with your lowly excuse for a cock.")

The hummer, not yet fluent in Lovino-is-half-asleep speech, took it to mean, "I am alive, awake, alert, and enthusiastic. Please talk to me."

"Hey, Lovi, what rhymes with _sensation_?"

"ARAFUGAFOMTAYPOOMPOOM!"

Translation: "I DON'T KNOW, SO GET THE HELL OUT AND LET ME SLEEP, DAMN IT!"

"Oh, you don't know, either? I'm at a total loss here, I have to say … I'm usually really good at this rhyming thing …"

The Italian resigned himself to the fact that that staying up until five-thirty A.M. causes one to be incredibly fucking tired the next day. In an attempt to actually get his eyes open, he rolled himself off of the bed. (The hard knock of the rug below would be enough to rouse him, he reasoned.)

… Okay, either the floor had miraculously become a hell of a lot softer, or …

"AAAH! GET YOUR DIRTY PAWS OFF ME, YOU VIOLATING BASTARD!"

The Spaniard carefully deposited his charge (who was trying not to wonder why he had enjoyed the feel of those arms so much) back on the bed. "_Lo siento,_ Lovi~. I just didn't want you to get hurt, is all~."

"I've fallen out of bed before and survived," Lovino grumbled, opening his eyes to find his new roommate anxiously peering over him, emerald eyes wide with concern and dark hair wet from a recent shower, uncovered abs just visible in Lovino's peripheral vision—_damn_, he was hot.

_No, Lovino_, the Italian scolded himself. _You are _not_ allowed to find Antonio attractive. He'll never love you, remember? He'll think you're annoying, whiny, and ugly, just like everyone else. Hell, he'll probably fall in love with Felicia the moment he steps into that restaurant._

"… use it?" the man in question was asking.

"Sorry, what?" Lovino inquired, shaking himself of those thoughts.

"Can I use your computer?" Antonio repeated. "There's this website, , that can help me out with my songwriting."

Lovino considered the idea for a moment. "Do you swear, on your guitar and the organs making you a man, that you will not break my computer, get viruses on my computer, watch porn on my computer, _read_ porn on my computer, read fanfiction on my computer, _write_ fanfiction on my computer, seduce innocent teenage girls on my computer, seduce innocent teenage _boys_ on my computer, set a dirty site as the homepage on my computer, do anything related to Germany on my computer, play video games on my computer, _or_ watch My Little Pony on my computer?"

Wondering who had done any of those things on aforementioned computer to make such a long list, Antonio said, "Sure."

"_Swear_."

"I swear."

"Good."

"_Muchas gracias_, Lovi~!" To accentuate his thanks, Antonio gave Lovino an impromptu hug.

Lovino normally hated impromptu hugs, and this one was no exception.

None at all.

Nope.

Shut up.

"Oh, wait, you need my password," he called after the _definitely not sexy_ retreating back of his new roommate.

"Can I guess it?" Antonio called back.

"Yeah, go ahead, I guess …"

"Tomato~!"

"What the—HOW THE HELL DO YOU KNOW THAT?! WERE YOU SPYING ON ME, YOU ASSHOLE?!"

"No, Lovi, I just know you so well I can guess your password, ahaha~!"

_Not even a week, and he can already guess my password,_ Lovino thought. _Fucking terrifying._

_Are you prepared to take a dive into the deep end of my head,  
Are you listening to a single word I've said?_

Antonio was still humming three hours later, when he and Lovino headed down to the restaurant for his job audition, and the Italian was starting to grow extremely tired of it.

"Look," he said, "I get that you're a singer and you like making up songs and all that shit, but could you please not _hum all the fucking time_? It's kind-of irritating …"

"Oh, _lo siento_," Antonio replied, momentarily interrupting his humming. "I didn't realize … Why _do_ you find it annoying? I'm not a bad hummer or anything, am I?"

"What? O-of course not, bastard!" Lovino stammered. "It's just that … You're about to audition for a new job, meet a bunch of new people, all this shit … Aren't you nervous? You're humming as though you aren't at all, and that's fucking weird!"

The Spaniard deeply considered that for a moment, then decided, "I guess I _am_ nervous, about the audition thing and the meeting new people thing, but I like playing, and I like meeting new people, so I'm excited, and the excitement is enough for me to push the nervousness away~! Besides, humming helps me figure out the melody of the song I'm writing …"

"Oh." Lovino was surprised (and, strangely, a little impressed) by the other man's ability to disguise his anxiety, but he elected to change the subject when a new thought occurred to him. "Oi, bastard, I should tell you about the restaurant before we get there, shouldn't I?"

"_Sí_, that would be nice~!" Antonio exclaimed.

"Well, um," Lovino began, "the place is called _Il Stomaco Felice_, and there are eight of us working there: me, I'm the waiter, two chefs (one is my sister, Felicia, and the other is this pervert named Francis), two bartenders who also serve as waitresses (one is Feli's girlfriend, Louise, and the other is her sister, Gillian), my _Nonno _(who owns the place but doesn't do too much actual work there these days 'cause he's too busy with his art—he's a great painter), his husband, Aldrich (who runs the financial stuff), and our musician, Arthur (who's currently on his honeymoon with his new wife and will probably be back in a week and a half or so.) All of us, except _Nonno_ and Aldrich, work at the restaurant part time while taking classes at UPenn. You can do something similar, if you want. Today, you should play for everyone, so that they can vote on whether or not you'd bring _Il Stomaco Felice_ good business while Arthur's gone. Got it?"

"_Sí, claro_," Antonio said. "Except for … Um … What was the name of that person, again?"

"Which person?"

"The one who did the … um … thing …"

The Italian hadn't been this frustrated with someone since Feli had somehow managed to tie her curl to the handle of their refrigerator door.

"Were you even listening at all?" he asked Antonio.

"I _was_, but there was this _melody_ that suddenly came to me, like it was given to me by God or something, and it sort-of invaded my head … Oh, and also, we walked by this pretty poster of a cat~!"

Lovino smacked his forehead, where a red mark was already starting to develop.

_When it's time to get ill I got your remedy,  
For those who don't remember me,  
Well, let me introduce you to my style.  
I try to keep a jumble in the lyrics, never mumble,  
When the music's makin' people tongue-tied._

A great of infuriating babbling and face-palming later, Antonio and Lovino had reached the restaurant. Lovino was about to give Antonio a few words of warning about his friends and their many, ah, _interesting_ mannerisms when a hurricane of red and silver burst out of the door and nearly deafened him with her shout:

"Antonio Fernandez Carriedo, _was zur Hölle_are you _doing_ here?!"

The girl standing in front of the two men in the doorway wore an _Il Stomaco Felice_ T-shirt, jean shorts, and black combat boots that reached up to her knees, but the way she stood, they saw her in the armor of an Amazonian queen ready to lead her warriors to battle. Everything about the girl—from the icy waterfall of silver hair cascading down her back to the lean, hardened muscles in her arms and legs to the demanding tilt of her chin to the glittering sapphire orbs she called eyes surveying all she saw with an air of unquestionable superiority—proclaimed to the world, in caps-lock, italics, and bold, that she was an unstoppable force of nature. Her pale, beautiful features were the sort that made men either want to kick her, kiss her, or both (though not simultaneously—that might get ugly.)

And yet, when Antonio and Lovino saw her, her face held its usual expression: a smile so wide and full of life that when its older told you she was awesome, you couldn't help but agree.

Antonio gasped as he felt strong arms encircle him in a hug and a well-placed knee rudely introduce itself to his privates.

"Why did it take you so long to get your sexy Spanish ass back to Philly, you air-headed _arshloch_?" the girl asked, releasing him from the hug to hold him at arm's length for the necessary inspection.

"Well—ah—" he choked out through his pain, "there were some—ah—complications—"

"Complications, my _ass_," she replied. "You were just scared of the beating I'd give you when you got back here, eh, Tonio?"

"Well—ah—maybe—"

"Oi, Frenchie," the girl called into the interior of the restaurant. "There's someone here you've just _gotta_ see."

"Did you order some strippers for me, Gil?" asked a heavily-French-accented voice from inside. "Because if you didn't, I don't see any good reason to delay the completion of the best baguette batter known to man."

"It's better than strippers," Gil retorted.

"What could be better than strippers? Besides more, drunk, and/or extremely scantily clad strippers, that is."

"The thing currently awaiting you outside of the restaurant."

"Okay, I admit, you've piqued my curiosity, Gillian," the voice from inside said.

Footsteps were audible for a few seconds, and then, a man who could only be described as Prince Charming appeared in the doorway. Honestly, his luscious, golden, shoulder-length hair, impeccably handsome features, winning smile, large eyes the color of the sky just after a storm, and general aura of poise and charm gave him the air of a man any lady would die for one night with. The man was a king lion; he seemed lazy and self-centered, but with one well-placed roar, the entire animal kingdom would bow to his will. Dressed in designer jeans and an _Il Stomaco Felice_ T-shirt covered by a stained apron, he was clearly the chef of the establishment—though whether he was the chef of delicious food or women's hearts was uncertain. He was the sort of man who could gather a crowd of fangirls and fanboys faster than you could say, "Wow, that guy's hot," –and he knew it.

He was the Prince Charming of the kingdom of One-Night-Stands-ia.

But he forgot all of his charm when he saw the man standing on the front step of _Il Stomaco Felice._

"_ANTOINE_! _Mon ami_ has returned—and sexier than ever, I see," the man added, patting the Spaniard he was currently embracing on the butt.

"You aren't so bad yourself, Francis~," Antonio replied, grinning.

"Now, you _must_ tell me," Francis told him in a very serious tone, "what have you been doing for the past nine years, how many women have you slept with, what positions did you do, how hot were they, where has that _magnifique derriere_ been, has anything been in it, if you know what I mean—"

"Oh, come on, Frenchie," Gillian interrupted. "One question at a time. Tonio's never been the brightest, remember?"

"Ooh, look, a shiny~!" Antonio pointed at an advertisement for a jewelry store on a passing bus, successfully proving her point.

Lovino, who had been standing on the sidewalk, watching the reunion, suddenly could not take it any longer. The confusion he felt was so huge, so dominating, so absolutely _confusing_ that he simply _had_ to act on it.

"OKAY, HOW THE HELL DO YOU BASTARDS KNOW EACH OTHER, GODDMAN IT?!"

"You mean … You didn't know?" Antonio asked.

"HOW THE HELL WOULD I KNOW?!" his roommate screeched back a thim. "I DON'T EXACTLY KNOW YOUR FUCKING LIFE'S STORY, NOW, DO I?"

"Well, didn't you know that Tonio here is the third member of the infamous Bad Touch Trio?" Gillian inquired, throwing her arm around the Spaniard in question.

Lovino looked at the three of them: Francis, Gillian, Antonio. The rapist, the pervert, the pedo. The Frenchman, the (self-proclaimed) Prussian, the Spaniard. The blond, the albino, the brunette. The Bad Touch Trio.

… Huh.

"So, _you're _the Lost Musketeer," the Italian said slowly.

"_Sí_~!" Antonio asserted.

"Wow," Lovino breathed. "I've heard stories about you. What you, the wine bastard, and Gil did in middle school that would give an innocent pre-schooler nightmares for his/her entire fucking_ life_."

"Yeah, we were pretty awesome," Gillian remembered fondly.

"So, _Antoine_, how did you get here, anyway?" Francis asked.

"Ah, well, I was playing music on the streets," Antonio explained, "and I was starving, and Lovi here picked me up and gave me tomatoes and a place in his spare bedroom and an opportunity for a job here, while your normal singer is out. I'm very grateful to him~," he finished, with a smile at the (now blushing) Italian.

"Wait, Tonio, does that mean you're the … the Curbside Prophet?" Gillian inquired.

"_Sí_~! Wait, how did you know?"

"You … Lovino thought about you all the time," she said.

"What—I did _not_," Lovino protested.

"You were always humming his songs, and sometimes you'd smile for no apparent reason, and when I asked you for explanation, you'd mutter 'Curbside Prophet.'"

"Then, Gil and I enlisted Feli to help us out," Francis continued, "and she told us that when you two walked back to your place after work one night, you passed by a hobo singing about how he was the Curbside Prophet, and you sorta walked more slowly so as not to pass him too quickly, and we put two and two together."

"I remember that~!" Antonio explained.

"But what I don't get is why you never told us the Curbside Prophet was Tonio," Gil wanted to know.

"Well, it's not like I knew what he looked like," Lovino replied hotly. "I mean, I only came here in high school, after he moved away."

"Oh, yeah," the Bad Touch Trio said in unison. (Sometimes, Lovino called them the Incredibly Fucking Stupid Trio, and it was for good reason.)

"So, anyway," Francis said, recovering from his bout of idiocy with a grin, "come on in, _Antoine_. Time for you to see the place!"

He led Antonio into the restaurant, giving the Spaniard another smack on his ass, just because he'd missed it so much.

_So I drop my top, I mix and a mingle,  
Is everybody ready for my single and it goes:_

If _Il Stomaco Felice_ was a person, it would most certainly _not_ have been a professional gourmet chef, snobbish and rude to customers who didn't recognize its greatness. Nor would it have been a slutty barmaid, winking at its customers as it slyly suggested another round. Nor would it have been a poorly dressed young farmer girl from the countryside, unsure of how to handle city life, food, or its customers. Nor would it have been a tough bouncer, eager to kick out anyone who looked a little suspicious or insulted one of its favorites.

No, if the restaurant was a person, it would have been a badass Italian grandmother—the type that is always ready with a smile, some advice, and a mountain of good cooking (and encouragement to "eat more, you're too skinny" to go with it) but not afraid to yell at you when you've made a mistake.

_Il Stomaco Felice_'s _Nonna_-esque personality was visible in its mismatched (but comfortable) chairs, its many haphazardly arranged tables, the sunlight pouring in from large windows, the colorful, funky patterns on the ceiling, floor, and trimming on the wood walls, the handmade signs identifying the kitchen, back exit, closets, and bathrooms, the small (but well-stocked) bar, and, most of all, the presence of photographs: hundreds of them, taped up everywhere from doors to ceilings to chairs to beer taps, each one showing the smiling face of a happy customer.

The bar seemed less like a bar and more like a second home. A place where anyone (stranger, friend, family, or even enemy) could get a delicious, hot meal, some good jokes, and maybe a bit of advice.

Antonio noticed all of this in passing, the way a teenager on the computer hears his mother shout upstairs about the readiness of dinner; he was so busy looking at one corner of the room, he saw little else.

The corner in question held a raised stage, about the size of two king-sized beds put together. At the moment, it was accompanying two loudspeakers, a microphone stand, and the accompanying cords, but with a little bit of a rearranging, it could probably accommodate a couple more mic stands, a couple of people to use those mics, and a drumset.

It certainly didn't look fancy, but Antonio had never seen a better stage in his life.

"May I … try it out?" he asked.

"You mean the stage?" Gillian replied. "Yeah, sure, I don't see why not."

"Which song are you going to play?" Lovino wanted to know. "Not like I really care or anything, of course," he added quickly. "Fuck. Of course not."

"Well, I've sort-of been writing a new song in my head all morning," the Spaniard said.

"In your head? Really? Is that different from the one you've been singing, humming, and searching for rhymes to the lyrics of, annoying bastard?"

"Okay, maybe not entirely in my head," Antonio admitted. "But still, I think I'll do that one."

The Curbside Prophet slung his guitar case off of his shoulder, opened it, took out his guitar, and began to strum. The melody was catchy, and, soon, Gillian and Francis were clapping along.

Once the singer had a feeling for the acoustics of the room, lyrics commenced pouring from his mouth in swift, rhyming fashion. They weren't the best, or most poetic, but they were kind-of funny, and certainly not worse than those of a good amount of popular music today.

_"Ha la la la la, l-listen closer to the words I lay,  
Ha la la la la, it's all about the wordplay.  
Ha la la la love, the wonderful thing it does,  
Because, because,  
I am the wizard of ooh's and ah's and fa-la-la's,  
Yeah, the Curbside Prophet, they say I'm all about the wordplay."_

It wasn't long before the song drew a couple of _Il Stomaco Felice_'s other workers out of the kitchen and into the main room. Antonio didn't notice, though; he simply went on singing, letting the music flow from his mind into his surroundings.

The last chorus came a little bit too quickly and was a little bit rushed, and he may or may not have accidentally ended on the wrong chord, but Antonio could live with that—it was pretty good for the first time ever being played aloud, right?

At least, his small audience must have thought so, because they were applauding as though they'd just watched a man save the universe with nothing but duct tape, a towel, and a banana.

Slightly flustered by his warm reception, the Spaniard took an awkward half-bow-sort-of-thing and stepped off of the stage, his guitar still held captive by his arm.

"Uh, hello," he said, smiling in a manner he hoped was friendly. "I'm Antonio Fernandez Carreido, but they call me the Curbside Prophet. Lovino told me that you guys needed someone to step in for a week or so while your normal musician is away, so, um … here I am~! I haven't been to music school or anything, but I have a lot of experience playing (it's been my livelihood for the past five years, sort-of) and I'm good at sight-reading and improvising."

"We didn't necessarily need someone," replied one of the men who had come in after Antonio had started playing, stepping forward to greet the guitarist with a huge grin that almost reached his golden eyes, "since I was planning to just play music off of the stereo instead, but, upon hearing you play, I've definitely changed my mind about that."

"So … Wait, what does that mean?" Antonio asked. "Is that good?"

"Yes, it's good," the man said, laughing. "It means you're hired."

"O-oh," the Spaniard stammered, barely able to believe his ears. He was hired! He had a job—and not just _any_ job, but a job in the same place as Lovino _and_ Francis _and_ Gil! Sure, it was only for a week and a half, but it was something, and it might lead to other opportunities.

"Thank you!" Antonio shouted, practically bouncing up and down with excitement. "_Muchas gracias!"_

"It's no problem," the man told him, reaching a hand out for Antonio to shake (which he did, very enthusiastically.) "I'm the one who should be thanking you, for bringing us business. I'm Roma, by the way—Lovino's grandfather."

"Yes, he mentioned you," Antonio said, taking in the appearance of his new boss. Roma did look like Lovino—it was quite obvious that they were related, as they had the same hair (only Lovino's was darker), the same eyes (only Roma's were more like pure liquid gold than Lovino's patchworks of different colors), and the same sort of face (only Lovino's was a little rounder and Roma's was a decent amount more wrinkly.) The resemblance ended there, though, because where Lovino seemed to be always frowning in irritation, disappointment, or disgust, Roma was beaming. He had the type of smile that could turn a roaring lion into a harmless kitten. And the man was always _bouncing_, as though he could never sit down in one place for more than a few seconds before he was up again, trying something new.

He was one of those people who can bounce off of walls like a human pinball unless they have someone to anchor them. He was … Well, he was a bit like Antonio, actually, which explains why Antonio liked him on sight.

"He said you were an _incredibly awesome_ painter ~!" Antonio added. (Lovino had said "good," but whatever. He had _meant_ "incredibly awesome," Antonio just knew it.)

"Why thank you, Lovino," Roma said, turning to his grandson. "And you should have told me the boy was such a looker when you called me about him," he stage-whispered, winking.

Lovino's face turned red faster than you can say _some really long and complicated word._ "I-I didn't—h-he's not—I-I mean—"

Roma laughed, and Francis and Gillian soon joined in. Aldrich, who had been watching from the doorway to the kitchen, gave a small smile.

Lovino swatted Antonio away with an angry, "Get your hands off me, bastard!" when the Spaniard tried to hug him, but that was okay, because when Antonio had asked if Lovino had been nervous for him, the Italian had replied, "No, of course not, you're a … a decent singer."

And Antonio knew that by "decent," he had meant "incredibly awesome."

_'Cause they need a new song, like a new religion,  
Music for the television, I can't do the long division,  
Someone do the math,  
For the record label puts me on the shelf up in the freezer,  
Gotta find another way to live the life of leisure …_

"_Hola_, _Il__ Stomaco Felice_~!" Antonio called to a not-particularly-impressive crowd at eight o'clock that night, disguising his nervousness with a mask of cheerfulness and enthusiasm. "My name is Antonio, but they call me the Curbside Prophet. Some of you may have seen me, playing on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Gaudi Street, and recognize me from there. I've recently been temporarily employed by the nice people who run this restaurant to play for all of you while the restaurant's normal musician is out. So, um, that's it, really, except for I hope you like my music! I'll be performing mostly covers, with a couple of original songs, including this first one. I call it Wordplay."

Without another word, the Curbside Prophet picked up his guitar and began to strum, humming a little to find his pitch. At first, his audience was a little skeptical—even the few people who had noticed him on the street weren't about to immediately like this strange new musician, with no real credentials to his name.

Antonio wore his one old pair of jeans and an _Il Stomaco Felice_ T-shirt, lent to him by Francis, so it wasn't as though he was trying to impress his audience with his looks. When he played, though, it was hard not to notice them—it was hard not to notice the hips swaying slightly with the beat, or the bronzed arms holding the guitar, or the nimble fingers strumming the strings, or the perfect, delicious-looking mouth singing the lyrics, or the brown curls that tossed around with excitement, or the enthusiasm that seemed to practically radiate off of the singer. Antonio was clearly having the time of his life, up there on that stage, even though it was quite far from the thousands of cheering voices he'd dreamed of—so the people watching him started to catch his excitement.

By the time he went on break, two hours later, the Curbside Prophet had a small restaurant-sized group of new fans and an even stronger conviction that performing was his passion.

_I built a bridge across the stream of consciousness,  
That always seems to be a flowin',  
But I don't know which way my brain is goin',  
Oh the rhymin' and the timin',  
Keeps the melodies inside of me,  
And they're climbin' till I'm running out of air._

"So, how did I do?" Antoino asked Lovino eagerly, in between gulps of water the Italian had handed him ("You need to keep hydrated, bastard, or your voice will go hoarse.")

Lovino shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. Seeing the Spaniard perform, for two hours straight, had done some really weird things to his body, and he was having a hard time not calling Antonio the best singer in the universe. "You were pretty good," he said. "The audience seemed to like you, anyway."

"Well, _I_ thought you were _amazing_~!" exclaimed a vaguely Lovino-like voice from the entrance to the kitchen.

Antonio turned to see a girl coming towards him who could only be described as _adorable_. Her wide, wondering golden-brown eyes were adorable; her full, round cheeks were adorable; her smug little nose was adorable; her long, auburn hair pulled into a high ponytail was adorable; her short pink skirt and flowery apron were adorable; her method of getting places by skipping was adorable; the world became adorable in her presence. She was the human version of a cute puppy—needy and delicate, but everything she did made a person want to go, "_Aww_." She seemed like the type of person who would be nice to everyone and everything in existence, unless it made fun of her, in which case she would smile at it confusedly until it felt guilty. Antonio felt, the way everyone meeting her for the first time felt, that he would do anything to protect her—because she had this beautiful smile that was so free and optimistic and full of joy. It reminded him of Roma's smile, actually …

"Antonio, this is my sister. Felicia, this is Antonio," Lovino saidsullenly, confirming Antonio's suspicions.

The Spaniard grinned widely at Felicia. "Nice to meet you!"

There it was. Lovino could see it already, and for some reason, it hurt more this time than it had any of the others. He muttered, "She's _engaged_, bastard," and ran off to serve a table of new customers, unable to watch any longer.

"Nice to meet you, too!" Felicia replied, not noticing her brother's distress. "I really loved your music. It was so _pretty_, ve~! Did you really come up with that just today?"

"_Sí_," Antonio told her. "Melodies just sort-of flow into my brain sometimes, like they're water and my brain is a really good sponge. And I thought it would be good to play something new for my first time performing here, so I took one and developed it. I'm glad you liked it~!"

"I liked that one other song you played, too. The one about sunshine. It was really nice, and it reminded me of my girl—my fiancée," the Italian girl said, as though she still couldn't believe it was true, "Louise. Hi, Louise!" She pointed out her fiancée, who looked up from the drink she was making behind the bar at the sound of her name.

Louise was, like her grandfather, Aldrich, as steady and solid as a rock—Felicia's rock, the way Aldrich was Roma's. She was tall and strong, and worked out frequently to keep herself in great shape, but in a quiet sort-of way; she didn't boast at all, simply used her strength to do whatever needed doing, as efficiently as possible. Louise was pretty, in the way that girls who don't realize the full extent of their beauty are pretty. She had a strong, arrogant face, similar to her sister's, and wide, sky-blue eyes that lit up when she smiled—which wasn't often, and all the more brilliant when it happened. Her hair was short, (so as to make upkeep easier, probably), and light golden, partially blocked by the massive headphones around her neck. The feature of hers that Antonio noticed first, though, (to his chagrin) was her … um, her … large chest. It _definitely_ had not been like that when he'd left Philly after middle school, when Louise had been ten or eleven. _Wow._ Puberty does amazing things.

Antonio was wondering how many times Francis might have attempted to get a hold of one of those massive fruits when he realized Felicia was speaking to him again.

"… _so_ nice and sweet, and even though sometimes she yells at me sometimes for letting dishes sit in the sink for hours or forgetting to wear pants, I know she loves me, and … I'm sorry, Antonio," the girl apologized, "I started babbling about Louise again. Lovi says it's disgustingly sweet when I do that."

"It's okay," Antonio told her, glancing at the German girl again to see her blush a little, almost as if she knew about whom her fiancée had just been talking. "I wish I had someone to babble about like that."

Felicia smiled at him, so glad to find someone that didn't mind her motor mouth. "I like you, Tonio," she decided. "You're nice. And I bet you'll bring _Il Stomaco Felice_ a lot of customers~!"

Antonio didn't believe her at the time—sure, he was pretty good, but he wasn't any kind of magical good luck charm.

And yet, the next night, the some of people impressed by the Curbside Prophet returned, bringing their friends. And the night after that, those friends brought more friends. And more and more people came to listen to his music, and catch his enthusiasm and listen to his wordplay.__

Because  
The ooh's and ah's and fa-la-la's are back in love,  
For the Curbside Prophet, they say, is all about the wordplay.


	6. Live High

**Chapter six is here, and I'm not posting late at night for once! Yeah!**

**My life is generally quite awesome at the moment, actually. I did well on all of my midterms, winter track is over, pit is starting up, my birthday is today, and, best of all, MERTHUR IS CANON! And also Colin Morgan won an award, and Bradley James was (in his own words) still "beaming with pride" hours later, so MAYBE BROLIN IS ALSO CANON!**

… **If any of you guys are Merlin fans, you'd be excited about that.**

**Whatever. I'm excited enough for all of you.**

**MY OTP IS CANON! *frolics off into a haze of gay***

… **Anyway. Enjoy the chapter.**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES**

**6. Live High**

_I try to picture a girl through a looking glass,  
See her as a carbon atom,  
See her eyes and stare back at them,  
See that girl as her own new world,  
Though a home is on the surface, she is still a universe._

Antonio was riding a triceratops through a forest of tree-sized candy canes to seek the Tomato of Destiny when the sky suddenly opened up, dumping buckets of cold rain onto his head.

Oh, wait, no, that was just Lovino waking him up.

"Lovi, that was mean~," the Spaniard accused, glaring at the Italian accusingly as he toweled himself off a minute or so later. "I didn't wake _you _up like that—I was nicer!"

"Yeah, but you woke me up after I'd only had four hours of sleep," Lovino countered. "_You've_ had at least eight!"

"Yeah, but … um …" Antonio was at a loss for decent retorts.

Lovino smirked. "That's what I thought. Now, hurry up—the list is long this week."

"List? What list?" Antonio asked. "And why do we have to get up at—" he glanced at his watch, "—seven on a Saturday anyway?"

"All of the employees at _Il Stomaco Felice_ take turns doing the grocery shopping," Lovino explained. "Fresh produce we get delivered from nearby Amish farms, of course, and some bread and pasta we make ourselves, but we still need to go buy some spices, olive oil, meat, flour, salt, olives, wines, cheeses—all of that stuff. Today's my turn, and you're coming with me."

Antonio considered asking _why_ he had to go along if he wasn't an actual official employee, but Lovino was still holding the bucket, and there was still some water in it, so he decided against it.

Besides, the Spaniard had grown increasingly interested in his new roommate over the course of the past ten days, since he'd started working at _Il Stomaco Felice_. Antonio wasn't a particularly observant person (for example, he hadn't noticed the way his presence drew customers to the restaurant like fangirls to live yaoi), but he did know _people_—that was what made him so charismatic. He could usually figure out a person's personality within a few hours of knowing said person, by judging his or her actions and decisions, and then use that knowledge to predict the person's reactions to different situations.

Lovino, however, was to Antonio what the USSR was to Winston Churchill—a mystery wrapped inside a puzzle wrapped inside an enigma. Sure, he had made some assumptions about the Italian after knowing him for a couple of days, but now that he'd had the chance to live with Lovino for over a week, he was starting to doubt some of those assumptions, and be completely baffled as to how all of those qualities he saw fit together into a single person.

One minute, Lovino was angry and harsh, insulting everything and everyone around him until Antonio wondered how anyone put up with him. But then, the next minute, he was being subtly kind, taking a few dollars off of the bill of an old couple or taking Louise's late shift at the bar so that she could go on a date with Felicia—but he would never admit to doing anything nice for anyone, because that would decrease his pride as an Italian badass (which he wasn't, really). And yet, later, he'd blush and stutter at something Antonio had said, or Antonio would catch him watching him while he played, staring at him with an emotion possibly akin to longing … All of this, even though Lovino claimed that Antonio was a far cry from the best musician he'd ever heard.

Lovino Vargas just didn't make sense, and so, to Antonio, he was a challenge—a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle that he only had a couple more days to put together, before, surely, Antonio could no longer play at _Il Stomaco Felice_, and he had to find a different job and a different home away from Lovino.

Going out with Lovino that morning would just be some extra time to casually observe him, Antonio figured. And when the Italian proudly showed him the Vespa they'd be riding over to Little Italy—well, that was just an added bonus.

_The call of the wild is still an ordination why.  
And the order of the primates,  
All our politics are too late.  
Oh, my, the congregation in my mind,  
Is this assembly singing of gratitude,  
Practicing their lovin' for you.  
_

The Italian part of Philadelphia was not unlike the people who inhabited it: loud and not very well organized. It sprawled over several streets, continuing for many blocks on one streetbut abruptly ending on another. To walk through it was to be assaulted by a barrage of huge signs, pushy vendors, and rude people carrying unhealthily large amounts of packages in varying sizes. Smells of all kinds assaulted the unwitting passerby, too—fresh fruits and vegetables on the streets, warm bread in the bakeries, meats and cheeses in the delis, and sweet pastries and gelatos in the cafes. Any un-Italian person would be thoroughly baffled as to how to navigate through such an odd neighborhood, but the Italians knew what they were doing, which places to enter, which to pass by, and how much to bargain as though they'd been trained their whole lives to do it (which, in a way, they had).

Lovino, being Italian, had no confusions about his tasks or how to accomplish them, and strode through the streets with an air of purpose that he exhibited few other places. Antonio, on the other hand, being Spanish, was so distracted by the sights, sounds, and smells bombarding his senses that Lovino nearly lost him—not once, not twice, but _five times_.

"Okay, bastard, next we need to go grab some—ANTONIO!"

Lovino halted and spun around so abruptly, the person behind him nearly crashed into him. He surveyed the street, annoyed, and then surveyed it again, more nervous, but to no avail—there was no trace of messy, brown curls, a bright red sweatshirt, or plain blue jeans anywhere to be seen.

Telling himself that his eyes must be deceiving him—he could've sworn Antonio had been behind him a second before—Lovino looked around a third time, and caught a glimpse of red disappearing into a bookstore across the street.

"_Figlio di puttana__…_" the Italian muttered, then hurried to catch up with his complete idiot of a roommate.

"What the hell are you—" Lovino started, bursting into the bookstore like a guy accidentally infiltrating the girls' locker room. "Doing, bastard," he finished more quietly, subdued slightly by a glare from the shop's owner, a mousy, blond woman in huge, round glasses.

Antonio looked up from the book he'd been flipping through to grin brightly at Lovino—and damn it, if that stupid smile didn't make Lovino want to forgive him already. "Well, I saw this bookstore, and I thought it would be cool to go see if it had any interesting books, so I went over to look," the Spaniard explained.

"Yes, I figured that out," Lovino replied, exasperated. "And it didn't occur to you to tell me where you were going?"

"Um … no. _Lo siento_," Antonio apologized.

"Good. Now, come on, we haven't even gotten through half of the stuff yet." Lovino pulled on the other man's arm, making him drop the book.

"No, wait, Lovi~!" Antonio protested. "Can I at least get this first?"

"Do you have any money to buy it with?"

"Um … no?"

"Then how do you expect to buy it?"

…

_Damn him and his stupid puppy-dog eyes. Damn everything. Damn it to hell._

Lovino didn't even notice until they were walking out of the shop and he was attempting (and failing) to prevent Antonio from giving him a thank-you hug that the book was called _Italian for Dummies_.

("Why the hell would you buy something like that?" "Well, I want to learn your language, Lovi, I guess. I thought it was only fair after everything you've done for me." "… Stupid bastard.")

_Glory God, oh God is peeking through the blinds.  
Are we all here standing naked,  
Taking guesses at the actual date and time?  
Oh my, justifying reasons why,  
Is an absolutely insane resolution to live by.  
_

Antonio was fascinated by literally every single object in every single shop he and Lovino entered. He wanted to know the name and use of every cheese, every olive, every mushroom, every spice, every bread, every pastry, every meat, every _thing_ Lovino bought—and hundreds more, besides. At first, Lovino didn't mind indulging him, as it gave him a chance to show off his extensive knowledge of Italian cooking, but he quickly grew tired of it, and started giving answers that were neither informative nor amusing:

"Lovi, what's this mushroom called?"

"Mushroomiticus Mushroominus."

"What do you use it for?"

"Cooking."

"Why is it all brown and moldy?"

"It's sad. Now come on, we have other stuff to get, you know."

…

"LOVI! COME OVER HERE! YOU HAVE TO SEE THIS!"

"No, I really don't."

"YES, YOU REALLY DO!"

"… What the fuck is it, then?"

"IT'S AN ENTIRE WALL … OF OLIVE OIL!"

"I don't see how that's so exciting."

"I HAD NO IDEA THERE WERE SO MANY DIFFERENT TYPES OF OLIVE OIL!"

"Well, now you know. Do you want a fucking medal or something?"

"WHAT DO YOU EVEN USE THEM FOR?"

"Different stuff."

"NO SERIOUSLY."

"Um … Well … The olive oil you use to sauté stuff in is different from the olive oil you use in salads, and that's different from the one you use to dip bread in, and that's different from the one you put in pasta sauce …"

"THAT'S AMAZING!"

"It's really not …"

"IT IS, THOUGH!"

"Come on, we're leaving."

…

"Loviiii~!"

"What is it _now_?"

"What are those cookies called?"

"Cookies."

"The little leaf ones?"

"I dunno, leaf cookies? Why does it matter?"

"Because I want to buy some!"

"Do I need to remind you that you have no money?"

"Well … Um … You'll buy them for me, won't you?"

"…"

"…"

"Which cookies, again?"

…

Antonio behaved as though he was a young child, seeing everything for the first time. He questioned everything, and when Lovino wouldn't answer him, he would guess the answer himself. When he _did_ get an answer, he'd be so excited, as though he was just one step closer to understanding the way the world worked.

Lovino didn't understand Antonio. He simply couldn't comprehend how the man managed to get such a thrill out of incredibly mundane things, the same way it puzzled him when Antonio was incredibly kind to a person he'd never met before, or grinned when he'd been insulted, or sang happy songs when he felt lonely. For someone who'd been beaten down by the world, Antonio sure was incredibly optimistic about it.

Lovino found that irritating, of course. He found anything he didn't understand irritating, really. But Antonio … Antonio was slowly beginning to grow on him. Lovino was beginning to wonder how the hell his mind worked, and if, maybe, Lovino should try to be a little bit more like him.

It was thoughts like these that terrified the crap out of Lovino.

_Live high,  
Live mighty,  
Live righteously,  
Takin' it easy._

Lovino dragged Antonio into a tiny, crowded shop on the corner of the street they'd been traversing, claiming that this place had the "best fucking subs in the goddamned universe." Judging by the delicious smells wafting in from the kitchen, the huge amount of people waiting to grab a hot sandwich, and the even huger amount of people sitting at counters near the windows, devouring their meals as though they were the last meals on Earth, Antonio felt inclined to believe him.

The Spaniard was perfectly prepared to wait in line like a normal, courteous person, but Lovino would have none of that. He physically forced the other man up to the front of the line, then grinned devilishly at the man behind the counter—a brilliant, fiendish grin that (for some reason) kindled a fire in the pit of Antonio's stomach.

Ignoring the fire with some difficulty, Antonio attempted to help his roommate learn some manners. "Lovi," he whined, tugging on Lovino's sleeve, "shouldn't we be waiting like everyone else?"

Lovino turned to look at him as though he'd just suggested they go jump off of the top of a thirty story building. "What, wait in line when I'm Giovanni here's favorite customer? Are you out of your fucking mind?"

The man behind the counter—Giovanni, Antonio assumed—laughed. "One of the usual, Lovino?"

"Yup." Lovino nodded. "And this bastard'll have the same, because he'd take too long deciding what he wants if I didn't pick for him."

"Hey, how do you know I'd do that?" Antonio protested. Then, a colorful signboard proclaiming the specials of the day caught his eye. "I can tell you right now that I want a roast beef and provolone … Hmm, or, wait, the chicken and vegetable might be good … Or perhaps the salami and onion one … Or—"

Lovino rolled his eyes. "You see what I mean," he told Giovanni, with an air of practiced irritation. Then, turning to Antonio, he added, "Now, go save us a couple of seats while I wait for the order, okay?"

"_Sí, claro_~!"

Antonio would save them seats. He would save them the best seats in the _world_—no, in the _universe_! He would be such a good seat-saver that he would be awarded a plaque only given to truly expert seat-savers. He would be renowned everywhere as Antonio Carriedo, master seat-saver. He would …

"Oi. Bastard. Where are the seats you saved for us?"

Antonio smiled innocently at his roommate. "Well, I didn't want to take seats that other people might need more than we do," he explained.

Lovino contributed to the ever-growing red mark on his forehead. "That's the _definition_ of saving seats, _idiota_."

"Oh … Well, you shouldn't have had me save us seats, then," Antonio said matter-of-factly, as a couple behind him vacated their stools.

Lovino lunged for the empty seats, but Antonio was in his way, obliviously grinning like the complete half-wit he was, and one of them was lost to a surprisingly nimble old lady.

"Damn it," the Italian cursed. "That was one of the comfy stools, too!"

"If you want a really comfy seat, you could always sit on my lap," Antonio suggested brightly. "Ooh, and that way, we'd only take up one seat, leaving more room for other people! That's a great idea, don't you think, Lovi~?"

Lovino's face turned about fifty different shades of red in the next five seconds and he called Antonio an idiot and a bastard in all the languages he knew (which was two, but _still_), but somehow, a couple of minutes later, he still found himself perched on Antonio's lap on a stool facing the window, trying to devour his delicious hot meatball sub with as much dignity as he could muster.

"You were right, Lovi—this sub is _delicious_," Antonio observed, seemingly not caring at all about the fact that he had a _fucking grown man_ on his lap that he was _bouncing up and down on his fucking knee_ like a _fucking baby_ or something.

And Lovino wasn't enjoying it. At all. Not even a little.

Shut up.

"Y-yeah, I told you they were good," he replied, deliberately not looking at Antonio (he wouldn't be able to keep the blush off of his face if he did.)

"I like this place a lot," the Spaniard continued. "But mostly, I like this seat … Don't you just love sitting on a stool next to a window, Lovi? You get to watch the people walking by and the cars on the street and stuff, while being higher up than they are! It's so cool~!"

Lovino was about to ask the bastard what the hell he was going on about (seriously, was he a five-year-old trapped inside a twenty-five-year-old's body or something?) when his thoughts were interrupted by the click of a nearby camera.

He swiveled around so fast, he tumbled off of Antonio and fell right on his butt. Which was not good for his self esteem. Or his butt.

"You're so adorable," laughed an (unfortunately) familiar voice from above him—a girl with long, wild chestnut hair, deceptively wide, innocent eyes, and a demonic smirk was standing there, peering at him like she wasn't an evil bitch who'd just put him into an extremely embarrassing predicament. She was, though—an evil bitch, that is. Sure, maybe you couldn't see it in her pretty, flowery skirt and pastel green blouse or her lovely, delicate face, but it was there, hidden in the fiery pits of her eyes, the possible reasons behind that smirk, and the way she looked at men as though they were pieces of meat, fresh for the slicing. If ever there was a person to be described as a wolf in a sheep's clothing, this girl was that person.

Then again, Lovino did have a reason to be biased against her, as she had sort-of stolen his boyfriend.

A boyfriend who had never been in love with him in the first place, because he was straight and had only gone out with Lovino because of a bet.

But still. At least Lovino had good reason to be jealous of her, right?

"Elizaveta," he said, attempting a threatening growl. (It came out more like a non-threatening mewl.) He picked himself up from the floor with all of the remaining pieces of his pride, glaring threateningly at the people who were watching him in amusement.

The girl gasped in surprise. "Lovino! I almost didn't recognize you for a minute there. It's been a while since I last saw you … Not since I graduated, I think."

_Not since you graduated, and you and Sadiq ran off to New York City without so much as a fucking goodbye to me,_ Lovino thought angrily.

"So," Elizaveta stage-whispered conspiratorially, because of course she didn't remember it that way, nobody did, "who's your boyfriend?"

… Really, Lovino's face didn't like him. Why else would it pretend to be a fire hydrant _so goddamned often_?!

Lovino focused all of his willpower on _not slapping her in the face_, and answered, "His name's Antonio, and he's _not_ my boyfriend."

"Really." Elizaveta raised an eyebrow unbelievingly. "Then why were you sitting in his lap?"

While Lovino attempted (and thoroughly failed) to stutter his way out of that one, Elizaveta suddenly realized something. "Wait … Surely, not _the_ Antonio? The future best guitar player of all time? The lost Musketeer?"

"The very same~!" Antonio helpfully informed her, still on his stool.

"An_to_nio! How on _Earth_ did you get back to Philadelphia? And with Lovino, of all people?!"

And soon enough, Antonio and Elizaveta were chatting like the best of friends, catching up on all of the years since middle school, and Lovino was standing awkwardly behind him, feeling completely left out.

Well, at least that wasn't too unusual. He was used to being ignored. He could probably avoid strangling Elizaveta better if she wasn't directly speaking to him.

But then, Antonio asked, "So, what are you doing, now? Did you become a successful journalist, like you always wanted?"

"Something like that, yeah," Elizaveta replied. "I founded a website that's sort-of like a magazine for young girls of the nerdier variety, and I've been pretty successful with that. I used to work in New York City—I moved there after high school—but I decided to move back here to live with my girlfriend, Katya. Her older brother owns a restaurant near the wharf, and she helps him out there."

And suddenly, Lovino was seeing red. Her … _girlfriend_. No, not her boyfriend, Sadiq—her _girlfriend_, Katya. Lovino didn't even know this Katya person, and suddenly Elizaveta cared enough about _her_ to move back to Philadelphia from New York City, when she'd only gone out with Sadiq after he'd practically begged her to. Sadiq had been infatuated with her, and, clearly, she hadn't cared at all.

Lovino had been okay with letting Sadiq go, in the end, because he knew that Sadiq had found a person who would make him happy—something Lovino had never been able to do for him. He'd spent an embarrassingly long time imagining what their life might be like, in New York City and in love.

Now, hearing Elizaveta speak about her girlfriend so offhandedly, as though it was completely normal, Lovino wondered how long it had taken her to break Sadiq's heart.

The Italian didn't even realize he had been glaring at the back of the girl's head as though he wanted it to spontaneously explode into a thousand tiny pieces until Antonio tentatively asked him if he was okay.

"No, I'm fucking not okay," Lovino growled. "I'm gonna to slap that bitch until she fucking bleeds, and then I'm gonna—"

Antonio clapped his hand over his roommate's mouth, stifling his threats, and forced out a smile. "Sorry, Lizzie, this has been really nice, but we still have a lot of groceries to get, right, Lovi~?"

Lovino was still glaring, but, hesitantly, he nodded, and let Antonio lead him out of the store.

"Look, I don't know what you have against Lizzie," the Spaniard said quietly once they were safely back on the street (and away from the evil bitch), "and if you want to tell me, you can, but I'd just like to ask you to try not to make anyone bleed, okay? Just … Just take it easy."

Lovino grumbled and groaned, but he did manage to not kill Elizaveta that day.

It may or may not have been primarily because Antonio cheered him up with his stupid questions and his stupid, constantly-excited-by-life smile.

_Try to picture the man to always have an open hand,  
And see him as a giving tree.  
See him as matter, matter fact he's not a beast,  
No, not the devil either,  
Always a good deed doer,  
And it's laughter that we're making after all._

It was almost two o'clock that afternoon when the two men were finally done with their shopping. Lovino claimed that it would've gone faster if Antonio hadn't been asking so many stupid questions, but Antonio was too tired to really care. He just wanted to go home and take a siesta before they had to head over to _Il Stomaco Felice_ for their shifts.

There was only one problem: how were all of the groceries they'd bought going to fit onto Lovino's tiny Vespa? It was an amazing Vespa, sure—sleek, slender, and pure white, one of the most elegant (and fuel-efficient) models that money could buy—but it wasn't exactly designed to carry groceries.

Antonio was about to suggest that he should eat some of the excess food to lighten the load when Lovino marched across the street to confront a man leaning against the wall of a restaurant, shouting to passers-by about the row of shopping carts lined up next to him.

When Lovino stopped in front of him, though, the man ceased shouting to grin toothily at him. "How many d'you need?" he asked.

"At least twenty," Lovino replied, curt and business-like, as though this was a frequent exchange. "I had a lot to get this week."

The man reached into a huge trash bag in one of the shopping carts and counted out twenty-five cheap, plastic grocery bags, the type that supermarkets will give you for free. "That'll be twenty-five dollars," he informed Lovino.

And Lovino didn't bargain, didn't argue—he simply took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty and a five, both of which he handed to the man in exchange for the bags.

"Why did you do that?" Antonio couldn't help wondering aloud later, once they'd double-bagged all of their groceries and tied them to the back of the Vespa with some string, also provided by the man for an additional five bucks. "I mean, you probably could've gotten all of those things from the people in the shops, for free."

Lovino explained quietly, almost as though he was embarrassed about something, so Antonio had to really concentrate in order to hear him. "Well, Franco's unemployed, so makes all of his money selling bags and renting shopping carts, which isn't usually all that profitable. I'd rather get bags from him than for free."

As Lovino swung onto the bike and beckoned Antonio to climb up behind him, Antonio had an epiphany: he had finally solved the puzzle that was Lovino, at least part of it.

The thing about Lovino was that he was truly an extremely kind-hearted person, generous and loving, but he hid it behind a layer of abrasiveness because he didn't want to get hurt.

Antonio issued a new challenge for himself, right then and there: to chip away at that layer of abrasiveness until there was nothing left in Lovino but kindness.

"Oi, bastard, what do you look so excited about? Come on, do you want to go home, or don't you?"

"Oh, sorry, Lovi, I just … um … Figured something out."

"Good for you, and no, I don't want to hear about it. Get on the fucking bike."

_Take it all,__  
And just take it easy,  
And celebrate the malleable reality.  
You see nothing is ever as it seems,  
Yeah, this life is but a dream._

"Hey, Lovi," Felicia asked her brother that night as they leaned against the bar, enjoying a couple of minutes off, "what are you smiling at?"

"Smiling?" Lovino quickly tried to wipe the offensive expression off of his face, but to no avail. "I'm not smiling at anything, what are you talking about?"

His sister shook her head at his denial, then attempted to search out the source of his happiness. "Oh!" she exclaimed proudly, a few seconds later. "I've got it! You're smiling at Antonio."

Antonio, currently singing some stupid song he'd made up that afternoon about living high and taking it easy (which, Lovino thought, was complete bullshit, and Antonio was an idealistic idiot), chose that exact moment to wave at Lovino.

The Italian (_fuck his face and everything about it_) blushed.

"You _are_!" Felicia said triumphantly. "You like him, don't you?"

Of course he didn't, that was insane, why was Feli looking at him like that?

And why was he somehow not able to assure her that she was wrong?

Luckily, Lovino was saved from answering those difficult questions, because just then, the door to the restaurant burst open as though kicked in by Godzilla himself, and a severely pissed off man uttered the question all of the workers of _Il Stomaco Felice_ had been dreading for the past ten days:

"Why the _bloody hell_ is someone else doing my job?"


	7. O Lover

**I could give you a whole lot of excuses why I'm posting this chapter so late (not to mention unbeta'd, woo) but I really don't think that'll help anything, so I won't. I'll just post it, and then probably post an edited version in a few days, and do my best to have chapter eight ready earlier.**

**So, yeah. Short A/N is short. Enjoy the chapter (even though it's a bit weird and probably a bit confusing—I just really like the image of Antonio dancing to this song.)**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES**

**7. O. Lover**

_What's the worst thing that could happen?__  
__We could change our minds.__  
__That seems to be the hottest topic at this time.__  
__We are sitting around in the meditation, dragging, chasing,__  
__Wonderin', who's holdin', who's got the will to draw the line?__  
_

"Look," Lovino stated, trying to sound as persuasive as possible without losing his cool, "you fuckers have to admit that Antonio has brought us more customers in the few days he's been here than we've ever had before. Don't get me wrong, Arthur's my friend, but this is already his second job, and Antonio's better at it than he was. I don't see why you idiots don't agree with me. Or is it just because you're idiots who don't know talent when you see it?"

"But Arthur has been working here for years!" Francis argued. "Surely it would be cruel to kick him out and replace him with someone who's only been here a week and a half!"

Lovino glared at the Frenchman. "I thought you were Antonio's friend!"

"I am, but I'm also Arthur's friend, and I know that it would be much easier to help _Antoine_ find a new job than it would be to convince Arthur to quit this one! He's like a demon when he gets mad."

"Yeah? Well, so am I."

"Maybe, if you guys can't decide who should get the job, neither of them should get it, and we can just hire someone else?" Louise suggested quietly.

Both the Italian and the Frenchman switched the brunt of their anger over to her. "_What_?!"

"Ah, no, please, don't hurt her!" Felicia quickly shouted, jumping in front of her fiancée. "She was only making a suggestion!"

"Felicia, it's fine," Louise soothed.

"I think Arthur should keep his job," Gillian cut in, getting her an appreciative glance from Francis, " 'cause he's hotter."

Lovino's face briefly attempted to emulate a stoplight. "He's not … I mean, he is, but, um …" he stammered.

Gil laughed and patted the angry Italian on the head condescendingly. "Not all of us have a Spanish boy fetish the way you do, Lovi. Some of us like blonds."

"I don't—oh, well, fuck you!"

Aldrich sighed in exasperation at the younger employees' bickering. He'd anticipated that, when Arthur returned, he would likely be annoyed that Antonio (his rival from elementary school and middle school, if Aldrich remembered correctly) had been doing his job while he'd been away, but he had never imagined that the entire staff would get into such a heated discussion on the subject. It had been an hour since _Il Stomaco Felice_ had closed for the night, and everyone was still holding as fast to their opinions as they had been when the debate had started. All Aldrich wanted to do was get home and see his husband (Roma had been at some art show all day), and he couldn't do that until these children put their differences aside, actually _considered_ the problem, and realized that the solution was, in fact, quite simple.

"So, you like blond boys, _ohonhonhon_~?"

"Mm, you know I do, Frenchy."

"STOP GROPING EACH OTHER IN PUBLIC, BASTARDS!"

… Clearly, they weren't going to figure it out any time soon.

"Enough!" Aldrich announced suddenly, using his Powerful Voice, the one that was capable of gathering the attention of a stadium full of people without the use of a microphone.

Everyone turned to look at him, momentarily distracted.

"Here's what we'll do," he instructed them. "Tomorrow night, we'll hold a little competition. Both Arthur and Antonio will play their best songs, and whoever gets the loudest cheer from the crowd will be the person we hire. That's the simplest, fairest way to do it."

Even Lovino agreed that the plan made sense, so Aldrich stepped out to inform the two competitors of their situation, smiling to himself with the thought of finally going home.

_And give us both a break,__  
__And give us back a taste of the way things were before they made the laws,__  
__And give us both a chance,__  
__But it won't be the last romance cause when the weekend starts the guilty party's on._

Meanwhile, in the main part of the restaurant, two singers were glaring at each other.

Well, more accurately, Arthur was glaring at Antonio, and Antonio was gazing absent-mindedly at a spot on the wall slightly to the left of Arthur's head, humming something.

Whatever, close enough. Arthur definitely had enough pissed-off energy for both of them. It was bad enough that he'd come back from a two-week-long honeymoon to find someone else doing his job, but for that someone else to be none other than _Antonio Fernandez Carriedo_, his mortal enemy from elementary- and middle-school … That was worse than someone claiming that Twilight was better than Harry Potter in Arthur's presence.

Arthur Kirkland, as you might have already guessed, was not an easily forgiving sort of person. He was more of a grudge-holding-for-a-thousand-years-and-not-forgiving-until-after-he'd-killed-three-generations-of-your-family-and-salted-your-crops sort of person. To make matters worse for him, he had all of the worst characteristics of the typical British male: he was quick to judge, quicker to dislike, and really, truly, devastatingly bad at expressing his feelings. He _was_ a proper gentleman, sure, but only to pretty girls who weren't mean to him (which wasn't very many of them), and on the whole, his personality was that of a puffer fish—seemingly harmless, but one poke in the wrong spot and it would turn into this massive, bloated, pointy thing that would get up in your face and not leave until you had a proper fishy duel with it, with jousting and everything.

Sometimes, Arthur secretly wondered how his wife even put up with him. She claimed that he was actually very sweet and loving under his prickly exterior, but he wasn't so sure about that—he figured it was probably his looks. He _was_ very handsome, if he did say so himself (and he did), with a sleek, arrogant face, brilliant emerald eyes that sparked when he was angry and glowed when he was happy, and an unruly (but unruly in a good way) mop of blond hair that sort-of made him look like a punk rock star. And his huge, caterpillar-y eyebrows did _absolutely nothing_ to make him less attractive—in fact, they amplified his attractiveness, making his body even more sexy and his ass even more delicious.

At least, that was what Arthur liked to tell himself, to explain how he'd managed to land Amelia. That, or it had been his badass electric guitar skills. (He'd say it had been his degree-in-English-literature skills or his tea-shop-running skills, but he really wasn't fooling anyone.) Or, perhaps, it had been the way he'd matured since he'd first met Amelia, when they were little kids in elementary school together.

That had also been the time he'd first met Antonio.

The Spanish twat, on the other hand, hadn't changed much since grade school at all, the British man thought. He was still incredibly stupid and ignorant, incredibly cheerful all the time, not very good on the guitar (even though he seemed to think he was something special), and incredibly fun to take down. (And Arthur _had _taken him down—by getting higher grades, by beating him at soccer, and by destroying those stupid little twig constructions he'd made on the playground at recess. Arthur still snickered a little when he remembered defeating Antonio's precious armada.) Possibly, Antonio might have gotten taller and a little bit more attractive over the years, but he wasn't nearly as attractive as Arthur, so Arthur forgave him.

"What do you think they're talking about in there?" Antonio asked, blinking a little as he zoned back in to the real world (a cruel world, for him, because it had Arthur in it. Hahahaha.)

Arthur shrugged. "Probably how to kick you out without hurting your feelings too much. You know, without mentioning that I'm a much better musician than you are, with better looks, more charismatic, more—"

"Actually, we don't know who's getting kicked out yet," Aldrich interrupted from the doorway to the kitchen, "because you two are going to decide that."

"_What_?!" Arthur demanded, outraged. "You're going to let him _steal_ my _job_?!"

"Not necessarily," the German explained calmly. "You're going to compete for it. Both of you need to come up with a song by tomorrow night, and whichever person the crowd likes more will be our musician."

"A contest!" Antonio said, grinning excitedly. "Sounds like fun~."

Arthur was about to protest some more, but then he realized that this was his chance to beat Antonio again, after years of separation. It was his chance to prove that he really was the strongest, the smartest, and generally the best.

A slow, slightly demonic grin crept over the Brit's face, and his voice matched it as he asked, "It does, doesn't it?"

_You are the sweetest thing I've found since whenever,__  
__You're the only way my time is measured.__  
__You might be the silent type,__  
__But you're appetizing louder now.__  
__It's crazy how you're killing me._

"… So, basically, I have to come up with some awesome idea to help Tonio win this thing, so that he can work at _Il Stomaco Felice_ forever, not just for two weeks," Gillian finished later that night (or earlier the next morning, whichever.) She turned to the boy sitting next to her on the couch, engrossed in Legend of Zelda, and jabbed him in the arm, hoping for his opinion.

When she didn't get an answer, the Prussian girl pouted and whined, "Maaaattie, pay attention to meee."

At that, he paused the game and turned to look at her. "What?"

Matthew Williams (called Mattie for short) was Canadian, which should really tell you everything you need to know about him. He was so quiet and shy, it bordered on antisocial, and he tended to sort-of get forgotten in the constant chaos that was his group of friends. His body didn't really help with that—it was short, but not so short as to attract notice, thin, and hidden by his baggy clothes—and neither did his face—it wasn't particularly handsome in any of the conventional ways, and was so often hidden by his too-big glasses and shaggy, overgrown, golden-blond hair that it was as easily forgettable as the rest of him. Upon looking underneath the hair and inside the huge, red hoodie that Matt usually wore, one might notice that he was actually pretty cute, with rounded features resembling those of a puppy that just wanted to be loved, these massive, soul-eating violet eyes, and the most adorable of smiles. Few people bothered to look, though.

Matt was honestly just a big teddy bear, like this stuffed polar bear he used to carry around as a kid: he was cute, but quiet; soft, but hard to approach; and if you hurt one of his friends, then you better look out, because this Canadian keeps sharpened hockey sticks in his back closet.

Gillian had been friends with him for the past seven years, ever since he transferred to her school sophomore year, and, as far as she knew, she was the only person who'd ever bothered to remember him. She tried to tell Mattie that he was awesome—and he was, kind and caring and strong and understanding and generous and always willing to help someone out—but he never seemed to believe her, and she hated that, more than she hated anything else in the world.

She tended to put that feeling on the back burner most of the time, though, and use her friend as a nice guy to whom she could complain about all of her problems and a great gamer with whom she could stay up all night, beating the newest action-adventure challenge. At the moment, she was using him as both.

"What do you think, how can Tonio beat Arthur at the singing thing?" Gillian asked.

Matt cocked his head in confusion—_God_, he was adorable. "I thought you said you wanted Arthur to win."

She rolled her eyes and explained, "No, no, Francis and I only pretended to support Arthur because we wanted to see how much Lovi actually likes Tonio. Which seems to be a hell of a lot, but that's something we can talk about another time … Both Frenchy and I want Tonio to win, of course—how could we _not_ want all three of the Bad Touch Trio to work in the same place, reunited after all this time?!"

"Oh, of course," the Canadian replied, nodding as he figured it out. "Well, what's Antonio good at that could help him win?"

"Well," Gil said, pausing while she considered the question, "Tonio's a great singer, really, he can do incredible things with his voice … But Artie isn't bad in that area, either … And he is pretty sexy, but, well, Artie's got a British accent, and he's got that whole punk rock thing going for him … And he can sight-read really quickly, and come up with new songs quickly, but that's not something the crowd's gonna notice … Hmm … Tonio's a great dancer, I've gotta admit that, but there's no way for the crowd to see that, not if he also has to play guitar at the same time."

"But … Why not?" Matt asked, suddenly coming up with an idea. "You could always record an accompaniment for him beforehand, and then he can sing and dance along with it."

Gillian thought about that.

Then she thought about it again.

Then she pictured it—Antonio dancing, like the sexy Spanish bastard he was, to a recording of himself playing the guitar … And maybe herself on drums … And Francis on bass …

"Mattie, you're a _genius_!" she exclaimed, giving him a congratulatory surprise glomp.

The Canadian attempted to a) not turn the color of the maple leaf on his country's flag and b) hide his raging boner. He failed on both counts.

_I know you've got something burning up inside,__  
__It's so unhealthy but so good for me, oh!__  
__Said if I didn't know, and if I didn't know, well if I didn't know, _

_That you loved me, would you tell me?__  
__Well God only knows our contradiction's to quitting, _

_Is a hate to love relationship thing.__  
__A fire under you is so fulfilling,__  
__I fear there's nothing more.__  
_

When Lovino wandered into the kitchen the next morning, attracted by the delicious smell of fried eggs, he was greeted by the sight of a shirtless Antonio pacing around, talking anxiously about something on the phone. The shirtless Antonio part of the sight wasn't entirely unwelcome—the couple of weeks in a proper home, getting proper meals had done wonders for the Spaniard's body, and he was already starting to gain weight in all of the right places.

Lovino didn't have long to ogle, though, because Antonio soon said, "Okay, _gracias_, I'll figure something out," and hung up, slipping his cheap cell phone back into the pocket of his sweatpants.

"What was that about, bastard?" the Italian inquired.

Antonio, noticing his roommate's presence for the first time, beamed at him. "Ah, _buenos dias, _Lovi! That was Gillian! She had this brilliant idea for the competition thingy tonight—I'm going to record myself playing the song, with her backing me up on drums and Francis on bass, and then when it's my turn to perform, I'll play the recording, and I'll dance to it!"

"You'll … dance to it," Lovino repeated incredulously. "How's that going to help you?"

Antonio twirled around a little, experimentally, to demonstrate his dancing prowess. "Francis and Gil say that I'm good at it, and that it makes me look sexy—so the crowd will like it and cheer more for me."

Lovino pictured _that_ for a minute, and then realized that he'd better change the subject quickly before he got too distracted by images of Antonio's swaying ass and sparkling green eyes. "As long as you don't practice your moves on me first, bastard," he told the Spaniard. "Wait, but Francis and Gil? They were against you when we were talking at the restaurant last night …"

Antonio shrugged. "Well, they must have changed their minds between now and then, because both of them seem really determined that I'm going to win this thing."

_Or, they did it just to annoy me,_ Lovino thought, _which is equally likely_.

But what he said was, "Then you'd better get to work, eh, bastard? After all, you have a song to write _and_ a dance to choreograph by tonight."

Grinning, the Spaniard replied, "Challenge accepted!"

Lovino just rolled his eyes.

_And I like it natural,__  
__No need for chemicals.__  
__Foggin' up my senses,__  
__You're making me senseless,__  
__You're calling it sexual.__  
__And you're going to get yours, my lady,__  
__Might even be today.__  
__And it ain't no thing because I'll be rolling right along with you-woo-woo._

Amelia padded into the kitchen of her and Arthur's apartment that same morning, drawn by the not-particularly-appealing smell of something burning. She wore one of Arthur's old dress shirts, far too big for her, and went barefoot. Arthur had no idea how she wasn't freezing, but he wasn't about to complain—he was enjoying the view (the shirt did wonders for revealing her lovely breasts, perfectly shaped hips, and truly stunning legs), and besides, some primal part of him really loved seeing her in his shirt.

Amelia Jones Kirkland was in many ways the human equivalent of an overenthusiastic puppy: she got way too excited about things that concerned her (and sometimes even things that didn't), she didn't really care about anything or anyone that didn't believe she was the center of the world, and she could convince you to do anything she wanted with one glance of those wide, innocent blue eyes. Amelia was always so loud, too—she'd yell at you until you did what she wanted, or she'd accuse you of making a mistake so that the entire country could hear, or she'd pretend to be a foghorn for no apparent reason whatsoever.

Really, Arthur liked her best on quiet mornings like this one—when she was quiet and subdued, and they could enjoy peaceful moments without her ruining everything. Sometimes, on those mornings, Arthur would find that—with her small, almost pixie-like features, her short, light brown hair that floated above her neck, and her those smiles that seemed to make her entire face glow with joy—Amelia really was quite beautiful.

He'd never tell her that, of course, but she could figure it out, by the dopey little smile on his face, and the way he did absolutely nothing to counteract the cause of the smell of burning.

"I was just worried about the contest thing tonight," he explained defensively when she asked him about it later. "Since I've never really performed an original song for people before—I usually just do covers—this is making me really nervous."

Amelia took a bite of her burnt scone as she thought for a moment. "Do you know what you'll write the song about yet?"

Arthur shrugged, looking dejected. "No idea. We had so little advance notice … Damn that Spanish bastard for trying to take my job!" he added, banging on the table to punctuate his annoyance.

Ignoring the complaint, Amelia told him, "Well, you should write about what you know, I guess."

"… About what I know?" he repeated. "What do I know? Nothing interesting I could write a song about."

She shrugged. "You know tea, you know English literature, you know some folklore, you know electric guitar, you know a lot of British sci-fy TV shows, you know me …"

If Arthur had had a light bulb over his head then, it would have lit up so brightly, he would have been able to provide light for a whole city. "I've got it!" he exclaimed. "Amelia, you're a genius."

She smirked triumphantly. "And that's why you married me."

His eyes grew soft with wonder, as though he still couldn't quite believe it was real. "Yeah," he said quietly, not looking at her, "I guess so."

_I like your …_

_Red top and matching bottoms.__  
__You know the ones, the ones you got on.__  
__Pull them over your skinny self,__  
__But don't cover your tattoo.__  
__Woo, cause I like to look at you, yeah,__  
__I love that smell on you,__  
__And I got your special place against this face for tasting too.__  
_

Antonio spent the better part of two hours pacing around the apartment, trying to write his song. Occasionally, he would randomly start humming or singing to test out a new melody, and sometimes he muttered words under his breath to hear how they sounded together, but most of the time, he just paced, letting the melodies weave together in his head.

_Okay. Song. I need to write a song. And quickly, not slowly like a turtle swimming across an ocean …_

_Turtles are so cute~!_

_No, Antonio, stay focused. Focused! Song. Write a song._

_Something sexy, Gil said, so that my dance to it can be really attractive and people will like it._

_Something about love, Francis said, because all of the best songs are about love._

_Love … What can I write about love?_

_Not about how I've loved, that's not something I can write a happy song about. So, something about love in general …_

_Love is sweet, right? It's beautiful, and it makes people feel full inside, as though the world is a remarkable place. But at the same time, love can make people do terrible things, and sometimes, love hurts people, even though they don't want to be hurt, they only want to be loved in return._

_It's crazy how something that can be so wonderful can also be so hurtful …_

_It's crazy how you're killing me._

_If I was in love with someone who loved me back, I wouldn't want to do anything but love that person. Loving that person would be the only way I measured time._

_The only way my time was measured._

_And love is red. Not dark, painful red, the color of blood, but bright, happy red, the color of Lovino's cheeks when he blushes, or the color of his tomato pajamas. Those pajamas are so cute~! Everything about Lovino is cute, really—his blush and his constant denial and his rare smile._

_I wonder what Lovino tastes like._

_Maybe I should write the song about Lovino, only not really about Lovino, just a little bit about him, inspired by him maybe, so that he won't figure it out. I think if he figured it out, he'd be mad at me. It would probably be cute, but I don't want him to be really, seriously mad at me, because then he might kick me out, and then I wouldn't be able to see him anymore, and that would be sad._

_Okay. Song about Lovino, only not really._

_Think love and Lovino and sexy. Love and Lovino and sexy. Love and Lovino and sexy …_

_Maybe this won't be so hard to write, after all._

"Hey, what're you smiling about, bastard?" the Italian himself asked, annoyed.

"Oh, nothing in particular," Antonio replied, still grinning stupidly. "I just came up with a good line for the song, is all. Hey, Lovi, do you think it's a good dance move when I sway my shoulders like this?" he added, demonstrating.

"It isn't bad," Lovino admitted—but Antonio could tell by the blush on his face that it was more than just not bad.

_Weekend party's over,__  
__Don't stop, let's get closer.__  
__Friday, got cold shoulder,__  
__Monday, got a new composure._

That night, for the Competition of Who Sings More Awesomely (as Gillian had dubbed it) at_ Il Stomaco Felice_, Arthur went first.

He sang a song about his favorite episode of Doctor Who (and then tried to understand why Amelia seemed so disappointed in him, as he was actually pretty proud of the song—summarizing Doctor Who episodes isn't an easy task) and received some minor applause from the bar's normal ten o'clock crowd, most of whom didn't get it but thought the speed at which he was singing was pretty cool.

And then, it was Antonio's turn.

The Spaniard was prepared for this moment—perhaps he had been preparing for it his entire life. He could feel the music in his veins, pulsing in time with the beating of his heart, even before he cleared the stage of everything except amps and a cordless microphone.

"Hello," he greeted the crowd. "I'm the Curbside Prophet, and unlike that last guy," he said, indicating Arthur with his thumb, "I'm not just going to sing for you—I'm going to _dance_ for you."

A hush fell over the crowd—it wasn't every day a hot Spanish man danced before their very eyes, much less one in such tight jeans (borrowed from Francis.)

And then, the music started.

At first, Antonio didn't move much, because the music wasn't moving much—he simply swayed back and forth a little bit, wiggling his hips just enough to give his audience a tiny taste of what was to come. As the base line came into play and the drums started to go a little wild, though, the dancer began to move his feet, and, soon enough, his entire body was in sync with the music.

Antonio moved like a snake, or perhaps like a wave—smoothly and fluidly, every motion leading into the next like intricate choreography, his body telling a story even though he was improvising his moves on the spot. He danced the same way he wrote music: he took a simple idea and traveled with it until it led him to a great place. He got a new idea, and moved off of the stage and into the crowd, brushing his hands along random people as he twirled by them—it left them awestruck, as though they'd been touched by a star.

_I'm getting over, all the comments.__  
__I'm feeling statements made by people are nonsense.__  
__I'm getting stronger, by the minute.__  
__And once I slip into position I'll swing you and turn you all around._

The Curbside Prophet didn't really know what he was doing. He hadn't planned this out beforehand or practiced choreography for years. He was just a guy with a decent voice and a wild creative side, singing and dancing as his intuition took him. The thing was, his intuition was _good_, and he enjoyed what he was doing so much that the feeling was contagious, and his audience started to enjoy what he was doing, too.

When Antonio finally finished dancing, he dropped his head with the last notes of the song and stood, frozen in place, all of the nervousness he'd let go of during his dance coming back to him all at once.

He didn't have to be nervous for long, though, because after a few moments of awed silence, the crowd burst into the loudest applause that had ever been heard in _Il Stomaco Felice_.

Nobody saw Arthur quietly slip out of the back door, trying not to cry.

_Weekend party's over,__  
__Don't stop, let's suppose-ah__  
__I won't blow your cover__  
__Opportunistic lover._


	8. Only Human

**A/N: Look, another late chapter. Yay. Blame this one on my procrastination. I literally wrote this entire chapter today. This. Entire. Chapter. Today. That's 4,500 words in one day. I haven't done something like that since NaNoWriMo. It's a nice feeling, to have written that much in one day, but I don't think I'll let that happen again. (Chapter nine is partially written and entirely planned, and then I'll have a week of vacation to get ahead. Big yes for vacation.)**

**So, thank the weather gods for giving me a snow day today (without which I wouldn't have been able to finish on time) and enjoy the chapter. It's unbeta'd, and hopefully it isn't crap. :)**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES  
****8. Only Human**

_A squirrel in the tree, is he watching me?__  
__Does he give a damn?__  
__Does he care who I am?__  
__I'm just a man, is that all I am,__  
__Are my manners misinterpreted words or only human?__  
__I'm human._

"Lovi~!"

Lovino turned around to glare at the stupid, easily distracted Spanish bastard behind him. "What the hell is it, _idiota_? We're already late!"

"It's a squirrel!" Antonio exclaimed, pointing to a tree in the nearby park where there was, indeed, a small, gray squirrel, watching them with beady, curious eyes.

"Yeah, and?" the Italian demanded. "There are lots of squirrels around here. What's your point?"

"It's so _cute_~," the Spaniard cooed.

Not at all deterred by the sigh of exasperation coming from behind him, Antonio proceeded to chase after the squirrel, attempting to win its affections with cries of, "Here, _pequeña_ _ardilla_ … Come over here, _pequeña_ _ardilla … _Come on, I don't want to hurt you, I just want to hug you and love you and tell you how cute you are~! … Aw, no, why are you running away from me? Come back!"

_Are you a riddle to solve all along?__  
__Or am I over thinking thoughts, of human after all,__  
__Only human,__  
__Made of flesh, made of sand, made of human._

There were many things in his life that Lovino didn't understand. He didn't understand the minds of girls, or how anyone could enjoy learning physics, or what real-life applications trigonometry had, or how a few certain people hadn't managed to die from their own stupidity yet, or how to realistically paint people, or, well, quite a lot of other things. The highest object on his list of things he just couldn't wrap his mind around had nothing to do with math or science or even human stupidity.

No, Lovino didn't get how Antonio's mind worked.

Even when Lovino had barely known the man, he'd been confused by him—he'd wondered how this bum, who seemed to have been so screwed over by life and fate and basically everyone everywhere, could still manage to smile at people and sing about how he believed in happiness and love. And now that Lovino was living with him, watching him sing and dance and make new friends faster than Lovino could flip someone off, the confusion just increased. How. How did he have so much faith in the world? How could someone who had witnessed the worst of humanity still believe that it was good and kind? How could he be so nice to Lovino, even though Lovino was always telling him off and yelling at him and insulting him and calling him stupid?

It just didn't make sense. _He_ just didn't make sense. He was too kind, too forgiving, and too idealistic. He believed that everything would be okay, and someday, he would find his soulmate and his dreams would come true and his life would just be perfect, and he believed it enough that it kept him going in the here and now.

Lovino knew that wasn't true—he'd believed in a perfect future once, but all of those beliefs had burned before he'd even graduated high school—and yet, somehow, Antonio was starting to give him hope. His enthusiasm was contagious when he smiled, the same way his excitement was contagious when he sang. Lovino, who had been a locked chest with all of his emotions hidden carefully inside for so long, felt as though he was being slowly unlocked.

It was terrifying, because he didn't understand how it was happening, how Antonio could be doing this to him, how Antonio could even be _possible_.

And, of course, it was terrifying because Lovino didn't want it to happen. He was fighting it every step of the way. (Or so he told himself.)

But as Antonio returned to him after fruitlessly chasing the squirrel (it had climbed into a tree to escape) and offhandedly remarked, "You know, Lovi, that squirrel kind-of reminds me of you—cute and nice but it runs away from me when I try to love it," Lovino started to wonder.

_Murderous crow, hey what you know,__  
__What you reading about, what you hold in your toes?__  
__Is that a twig, are you a dove of peace,__  
__A black dove undercover, with another puzzle piece._

The next object to distract Antonio as he and Lovino were on their way to work was a poster.

Well, this occurrence wasn't particularly unique—Antonio tended to get distracted by posters often, especially if they were shiny, contained bright colors, or advertised something he found interesting (which was basically everything.) The unique thing was how distracted Antonio got by the poster.

This distraction happened, as many of the best things in life do, in stages.

Stage one: recognition. Antonio spotted the poster's design from a block away—"Hey, Lovi, look! It's a turtle!" "What? There aren't any turtles in Philadelphia, stupid bastard." "No, I mean, there's a turtle on that poster over there!"

Stage two: gathering of information. "'Help save the endangered sea turtle,'" Antonio read off of the poster. "'Come to a gathering of the PCPW—Philadelphia Citizens for the Protection of Wildlife—on Thursday, the sixteenth of November, in the meeting room in the science wing of UPenn, to learn more.'"

Step three: realization. "_Lovi_," Antonio said, in the manner of a formerly blind man seeing for the first time, "_I have Thursday off_. And I like turtles. And I don't want turtles to die. I should go to the meeting!"

Step four: challenge. "No, that's a waste of time," Lovino told the Spaniard. "I've heard of the PCPW—my photography teacher is one of the advisors, and she tries to get us to go to their meetings all the time. They do a lot of talking, but they never really accomplish anything. It's just a bunch of environmentally-crazy hippies getting together to smoke pot."

Step five: determination. "I don't think it's a waste of time," Antonio countered. "I think it sounds like fun. And I won't smoke any pot. Besides, it's my night off, I can do what I want with it."

His mind made up, the Spaniard strode off with a huff in the direction of _Il Stomaco Felice_. Lovino sighed, biting back a new set of comebacks, and told himself that it was stupid to not want Antonio go to the meeting because Lovino would rather spend time with him instead.

Anyway, one thing that Lovino had noticed in the three weeks he'd been living with Antonio was that once that man made up his mind about something, there was no way to get him to back down.

_Up in the major's tree, the one he planted back when he was just a boy,__  
__Back in 1923.__  
__Thirty meters and a foot, take a look, take a climb,__  
__What you'll find is the product of a seed._

It was nine fifteen that Thursday night, and Lovino sat alone in his apartment, watching TV.

This wasn't much different from the way Lovino had spent many of his nights off in the past, and it certainly wasn't boring—BBC America was showing one of his favorite Doctor Who episodes—but he still felt lonely and a little depressed, as though something was missing.

Lovino tried to dismiss the thought. Nothing was missing! He had his awesome couch (the most comfortable couch in Philadelphia, he claimed), his tomatoes, and Doctor Who. What else could he need?

He ignored the little voice that said, _Antonio_.

Just because Antonio had gone to that stupid meeting, despite all of Lovino's best efforts to warn him against it, and should have been home by now, didn't mean Lovino missed him or needed him in his life in any way, shape, or form. Why on Earth would anyone think that? Lovino didn't need anyone.

"I don't need anyone," the Italian repeated out loud, angrily jamming a tomato in his mouth for emphasis.

"Loviii~!"

The door to the apartment suddenly burst open to admit a bright-eyed Spaniard, practically bouncing up and down with obvious excitement.

Lovino ignored his heart, which was behaving in a scarily similar manner, and glowered at Antonio. "Did you really have to come home this early? A great Doctor Who episode's on. It's the one when Donna comes back, and there are these creatures made of fat that somehow aren't nearly as creepy as they sound."

"Lovi, listen to this!" Antonio exclaimed, sitting on the couch next to Lovino, then abruptly jumping up to pace the living room, unable to sit still. "So there are these turtles, right, these sea turtles, and they live on this beach in Florida and they're really cute and really awesome and I just want one, only the thing is they're dying out because—"

"You do realize that I don't really care, right, bastard?" the Italian interrupted, attempting to see around Antonio (who was currently standing right in front of the TV) and watch the episode.

But, well, apparently the Spaniard hadn't heard him, because he went right on with talking. "They're dying out because they're endangered, and stuff, I'm not really sure about this stuff because a couple of the biology majors said all of these really big words about habitat and environmental change or something and they kind-of lost me, but they're kind-of a little bit endangered, at least on that beach, only there's this real estate company that wants to build a resort there, and that would totally suck for the turtles, because then they'd lose their homes, which obviously nobody wants to do, especially not cute turtles, and so we're going to force the company to not build a resort there and make the beach a wildlife preserve instead, and then all of the turtles could live in peace and happiness! Isn't that great, Lovi~?"

Lovino, who had caught approximately ten words in all of that, took a moment to decipher it. Only one major question arose in his mind: "_We're_?"

"Uh-huh!" Antonio nodded.

"Who's _we_?"

"PCPW!"

"And why is that a _we_?"

"Because I joined!"

"You … _what_? Did you not listen to a thing I said about them?"

"But, Lovi, they were all such nice _people_," Antonio protested, "and they all love turtles _so much_, and there was no pot at the meeting, I swear!"

"So you don't think they're a bunch of idiotic, idealistic hippies?" Lovino demanded.

"I don't think they're a bunch if idiotic, idealistic, hippies! … Wait … Lovi … What does idealistic mean?"

Lovino sighed. Clearly, Antonio's stupidity knew no bounds. "It's when you have no brains, only ideas."

"They aren't!" Antonio said defensively, even though he still wasn't really sure what the word meant. "I'm sure they aren't! And I'm not quitting, now that I've joined! I am a proud member of PCPW! I even bought a T-shirt!" He took off his jacket to reveal a light green T-shirt, with the letters PCPW emblazoned in darker green letters and a turtle design at the bottom.

Lovino stared at it, wondering how a man could be so good at figuring out people (as he'd somehow done with Lovino) and yet at the same time so quick to make bold, rash, almost stupid decisions.

"I suppose you can't quit, then," the Italian admitted at last, "not if you've already gone so far to show your loyalty. So, how are you guys planning to stop this big, evil real estate company from killing all of the poor, innocent turtles?"

"We're going to have a charity rally," Antonio announced proudly, as though he himself had helped come up with the idea. "There are going to be speeches about why we should save the turtles, and pictures of the turtles to make everybody feel bad for them because they really are so _cute_, and we'll advertise it a lot all over the campus and in the city, and there will be a petition there for people to sign. Oh, and all of the members are going to try and get signatures on our own, from people we know and stuff, too. We want to get at least ten thousand signatures."

That actually sounded like a decent idea, but Lovino wasn't about to admit it.

"Oh, and guess where the rally's going to be held?" the Spaniard added, sitting down on the couch next to Lovino and grinning like a little kid who has a great big secret he wants to tell his parents.

"I really have no idea," the Italian answered.

"It's going to be at …" Antonio paused for dramatic effect … "_Il Stomaco Felice!_"

… _Okay, maybe volunteering the restaurant as a location for the rally wasn't such a good idea after all,_ he thought, looking at Lovino's face.

_The seed is sown, all alone,__  
__It grows above, with a heart of love,__  
__Sharp and shelter of the animals of land and cold weather breathing,__  
__We're all breathing in._

A man always looks the most beautiful when he talks about his passion. When a runner describes the power and confidence he felt as he passed two people in the final moments of his previous race, or a pianist exclaims how much she loves her newest piece, or a chef recalls how he came up with his favorite recipe, or a writer explains the intricate plot devices of the story she's working on—that is the moment that anyone can see that this, _this_ is what that person cares about. An inner glow seems to come from within the person, illuminating his or her face and increasing the brightness of his or her smile.

Everybody is beautiful and nobody is worthless when talking about his or her passion—especially when talking to the person he or she loves most in the world.

For Roma Vargas, his passion was painting, and the person he loved most in the world was Aldrich.

Aldrich pretended to hate it when Roma went on for an hour about this painting he was working on, or that painting he had finished but didn't want to show to anyone because it didn't "feel quite right," or which paintings he should bring to this art gallery, or what he should try painting next—but actually, watching Roma rant and contemplate and explain was one of the times that he loved Roma the most. He was just so beautiful when he talked about painting, almost as beautiful as he was when he was actually painting. (Not that Aldrich would ever admit that to him, of course.)

So, on that Thursday night, Aldrich was enjoying hearing Roma go back and forth between two shades of yellow for the sunlight in his current project, half-watching some reality show on TV, and taking sips of his favorite beer. He wanted the phone to ring about as much as he wanted the Earth to be taken over by daleks.

Which meant that, in accordance with the laws of the universe, the phone did ring.

Assuming it was Gillian asking for money or a favor or something (his calls were typically little else, unless it was Roma calling to complain about something), Aldrich answered it on the fifth ring with a curt, "_Was_?"

"Aldrich? It's Lovino," said the voice on the other end of the line, sounding angry (not unusual for Lovino) and shocked (maybe a little unusual, although nothing to worry about.) Huh. Lovino. Interesting.

"Hello, Lovino," Aldrich replied. "Why are you calling?"

Lovino sighed—maybe the subject was painful for him? "It's Antonio. He's done something really stupid."

The Spaniard in question could be heard in the background shouting, "It's not stupid, it's noble!"

"It's fucking moronic, and you know it!" Lovino yelled back at him.

"I don't care whether it's stupid or not," Aldrich interrupted their bickering. "I just want to know what it is, so that this phone call can be over and done with."

"Oh, right," the Italian said, apologetic. "Well, wait until you hear what it is, and you'll probably agree that it's stupid."

"What. _Is_. It?"

"He volunteered _Il Stomaco Felice_ to be the location of an environmental rally next Friday night."

Aldrich did not get openly angry, as a rule. He preferred to keep his anger tucked safely inside him, where it could only come out in the rare rant to Roma when something was a serious issue. Most of the time, he simply made himself into the living version of a block of ice—cold, hard, and immovable. The silent treatment worked wonders when it was executed properly, as did the soft, monotone method of interrogation. It would work well in this situation, Aldrich figured. And he had to admit that he agreed with Lovino—Antonio had been stupid.

The German was about to quietly demand some answers from the Spaniard when Roma noticed that he was wearing his stone-cold expression.

"Aldrich?" he asked worriedly. "What happened? What did Lovino tell you?"

"Antonio has been an idiot," Aldrich explained simply. ("I knew it! I knew he'd agree with me! Take that, bastard!" Lovino crowed.)

Roma laughed, and Aldrich was struck for the millionth time by how unbelievably beautiful his laugh was. "Of course he has. Can you put him on speakerphone?"

"Sure. Lovino, can you put your end on speakerphone, too, please?"

"Yeah." Lovino complied. "Now, you can talk directly to the idiot himself."

"Antonio," Aldrich said, calm and composed (which was how he always sounded at his angriest.) "Please explain what you did."

Only then, with a scary German Legolas-look-a-like on the other end of the phone, did Antonio realize that what he'd done might actually be kind-of bad.

"I, um, well …" he began, trying to come up with a way to explain the situation to so that Aldrich wouldn't be mad, "there's this population of sea turtles that live on this beach in Florida, and they're endangered because the beach that they live on is going to be made into a resort."

"I fail to see how this has anything to do with _Il Stomaco Felice_," Aldrich replied.

"Well, I joined this organization, PCPW—it stands for Philadelphia Citizens for the Protection of Wildlife—that's protesting against the destruction of the turtles' home," the Spaniard continued. "We're starting a petition saying that we don't think the real estate company that owns the land should develop it, and we're going to send it to them along with a bunch of information about the turtles, and we're having a rally next Friday night in order to help reach our goal of ten thousand signatures. And, um …"

"Yes?" the German prompted. Roma looked on, curious but not saying anything (he wasn't very good at this discipline stuff, never had been.)

"I … sort-of … volunteered _Il Stomaco Felice_ to be the location of the rally," Antonio finished quickly.

"Did you realize, when you did this, that you need my and Roma's permission in order to have our restaurant used by these people?" Aldrich asked.

"Um … not really," Antonio admitted. "But I was hoping I'd get it now," he added hopefully.

"And how, exactly, might the restaurant benefit from this … rally?"

Well, at least _this_ was a question Antonio knew he could answer. "You'd get to help save innocent turtles from having their homes taken away from them~!" he exclaimed.

Lovino was audible, laughing quietly in the background.

"I see," Aldrich said, in a monotone that implied that no, he didn't see.

"I think we should okay it," Roma announced, speaking up for the first time (he'd been unusually silent for most of the conversation.)

"_What_?!" his husband nearly squawked, surprised to be challenged. "Have hippies in our restaurant? _Our_ restaurant?"

"What harm can it do?" Roma replied. "Antonio's young, he made a mistake, he acted without thinking—but hey, this rally will introduce a bunch of students to our restaurant, right?"

Antonio nodded eagerly, then remembered that Roma couldn't see him, and asserted, "_Sí_!"

"That can't be bad. And besides, I bet those turtles _are_ really cute~!" Roma added, smiling.

_Made of flesh, made of sand, made of human.__  
__The planet's talking about a revolution,__  
__The natural laws ain't got no constitution.__  
__They've got a right to live their own life,__  
__But we keep paving over paradise,__  
__'Cause we're only human.  
__Yes we are, only human.  
__If it's our only excuse, do you think we'll keep on being only human?_

"I can't believe they agreed," Lovino said a few minutes later, hanging up.

Antonio grinned. "I knew they'd come around."

"No, you didn't," Lovino contradicted him. "You seemed pretty nervous there for a minute."

"I knew that the power of adorable turtles would come through for me in the end~!" Antonio replied, standing up and twirling around a little in excitement. "Roma and Aldrich are only human, after all."

"What, so all humans succumb to the power of adorable turtles?" the Italian asked.

"No, just good humans," Antonio clarified. "Some people succumb to other things, meaner things, like the power of money. Like that company that wants to develop over the turtles' home—the people there say that they shouldn't have to stop a building project that will make them lots of money just because of some turtles. They say that it's human nature to keep building, developing new land—that they're only human."

"Only human, eh?" Lovino wasn't really paying attention any more—there were still a few minutes left in the Doctor Who episode that he wanted to catch.

"Yeah, only human," his roommate exclaimed, not noticing or caring that he was lacking an appreciative audience. "It's a terrible excuse, though … Would it be okay for me to kill someone, because people like to kill other people, so killing is only human? No, of course not … So why is killing animals any different? Ooh, maybe that can be the subject of my song!"

This attracted Lovino's attention. "Song? What song?"

"I'm going to write a song to play at the rally," Antonio explained. "And I think I'm going to call it Only Human …"

"Alright, do whatever the fuck you want, just shut up for a minute and let me watch this."

_If I ever fall in love,__  
__I'll have to give myself a baby.__  
__I will let my children have their way,__  
__'Cause we're only human, yes we are.__  
__Only human, so far, so far._

When Matt Williams pulled open the old, wooden door of _Il Stomaco Felice_ the next Friday, it was the more crowded than he'd seen it in at least six months. Every seat was filled, every standing room spot was taken, and the dance floor was so packed, he accidentally made it to second base with three girls just trying to walk through. All eyes were focused on Antonio, who stood in center stage, strumming his guitar with his stupidly enthusiastic, somehow incredibly attractive air, singing something about planets and seas.

The number of people wasn't what alarmed Matt, though—no, that award would have to go to the number of _turtles_.

Turtles were literally everywhere: turtle pictures adorned the walls, the chairs, the tables, and even the menus; turtle stuffed animals littered the floor; pamphlets with turtles on the covers were stacked on every available flat surface; all of the restaurant's employees were wearing T-shirts emblazoned with turtles instead of their usual bright yellow smiley-face ones. It was an invasion of the turtles, and they were brainwashing the people with their cuteness—just look at their little faces and their little tails and their little legs and their little arms, they're so precious, yes they are.

Matt had never been a turtle person, really, so he was not prepared for this avalanche of turtle propaganda. It would have scared him if the turtles hadn't been so genuinely cute.

"What's with the turtles?" he asked Gillian when he found her at the bar, serving drinks with turtle-colored straws.

She waved her finger in the air, asking for a moment while she handed a customer his order, then grinned at him—and his heart flip-floped accordingly. "Because Roma has suddenly decided to divorce _Opa _and elope with a turtle, and he demanded that we redecorate to celebrate!" she shouted over the music.

"_What_?" Matt repeated, confused. Roma, divorce Aldrich to elope with a turtle?! Surely that couldn't be true!

"It was a joke, Matt, you can stop looking all befuddled now," Gil explained, laughing. "Actually, on second thought," she added, "you can keep looking befuddled, you're cute that way."

And now he had to recover from _that_ comment. Matt equally loved and hated the way Gillian was constantly keeping him on his toes, surprising him with her quick and witty responses.

"And now you're blushing," she noted. "Aww. But anyway, the actual reason for the turtles is that _Il Stomaco Felice_ is hosting a rally to save the sea turtles of Florida from having their homes taken away by an evil real estate company. Antonio sort-of volunteered the restaurant to serve as a location for the rally, and we couldn't really say no after he'd already vouched for us."

"Your grandfather let him do that?" Matt wondered, surprised.

Gil shrugged. "Roma convinced him. He thinks turtles are cute."

"Oh."

An awkward silence ensued. Well, it wasn't really an awkward silence so much as Matt sitting down at the bar and being quiet for a moment while Gil served another couple of customers, but whatever. It felt like an awkward silence, which is what counts.

"Hey, so why did you come over here, anyway?" Gillian inquired the next time she had a few seconds between orders.

"Oh, I just wanted to make sure we were still on for tomorrow night," Matt answered, smiling nervously.

"Of _course_ we're still on for tomorrow night!" she replied, grinning widely. "How could we not be? It's a Monty Python marathon, for God's sake!"

"I just wanted to make sure," the Canadian said.

"But … You could've just texted me," Gil told him, wondering. "You didn't have to walk over here to ask me in person."

Matt didn't answer for a moment. What was he supposed to say—_I wanted to see you? I know I'm going to see you tomorrow night, but I had to see you tonight because I'm lonely and you're the only person who sees me, really sees me, and I love you and I want us to be more than friends but I can't say anything because I'm a coward and a loser and you're strong and beautiful and perfect? I want to spend the rest of my life with you, not as friends but with you as my wife and with children, our children, only that will never happen because you're a goddess and I'm only human?_

In the end, he went with, "I wanted to go for a walk, so I figured I might as well walk here."

"Oh," Gil replied—and he wondered why she seemed a little disappointed. "Well, enjoy the turtles. I'd better get back to my shift before _Opa_ yells at me. See you tomorrow, Mattie."

She went back to taking orders with a small wave and a grin that left him breathless. Matt watched her for a few minutes, trying not to show how hopelessly in love he was but probably failing, and then sighed. He got up, signed the petition (because, hey, the turtles _were_ cute) and walked out, thinking of pointless hopes.

_And this place, it will outlive me,__  
__Before I get to heaven I'll climb that tree.__  
__And I will have to give my thanks,__  
__For giving me the branch to swing on._

"We got eleven thousand signatures!" Antonio announced as he and Lovino walked past the small park on the way back to their apartment (well, Lovino walked, Antonio _skipped_.)

"Yes, I know," Lovino replied. "You've told me eleven thousand times already."

Antonio frowned. "No, I don't think it's been eleven thousand times yet."

Lovino sighed. "Can we not _make_ it be eleven thousand times? Please?"

"I helped save the tur-tlesss~!" Antonio sang, skipping along more quickly—and then, suddenly, he stopped in his tracks.

"_Lovi_," he whispered, awed.

"What?" Lovino asked, significantly less awed.

"_Look_ at this _tree_," Antonio said reverently. "It's _perfect_ for climbing! Come on, climb it with me. Please?"

"It's two A.M.," Lovino protested. "I just want to go home and go to bed! I'm not climbing any trees, what kind of fucking crazy idea is that?"

And yet, ten minutes later, he was climbing the tree, as Antonio swung from a higher branch and sang bits of his songs to the stars, and he was laughing as Antonio nearly fell out of the tree, and grinning as they reached the top.

Lovino still didn't understand his roommate. He still thought the Spaniard was too enthusiastic and cared too much for everything and everyone, even when they didn't deserve it. He still felt as though Antonio was slowly bringing him out of his shell.

But maybe—just _maybe_—he was starting to like it.

Just a little.

_Only human, only human, only human,__  
__So far._


	9. Lucky

**A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! (I mean, I'm a couple of days late, but whatever. I COME BEARING PRUCAN. IT IS ADORABLE. AND PRUCAN-Y.)**

**And I have vacation next week (which I'm spending in a place with fairly limited Internet access), so I should be able to get ahead on writing, and then chapters won't be this late, and it will be awesome, and stuff, yeah.**

**Also, thanks a lot to Lilah (probably the best way to find her is on Tumblr as **_**dicaeopolis**_**, if you want to be a stalker or a creeper or whatever) who beta'd this chapter, because she's awesome, and basically the resident PruCan expert in my group of friends (I mean that in a seriously complementing way, I promise.)**

**(OH BY THE WAY FRANCIS AND GILLIAN SHARE AN APARTMENT. I'M MAKING THAT KNOWN NOW BECAUSE IT MIGHT NOT HAVE BEEN CLEAR IN THE STORY.)**

**Enjoy, my pretties~!**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES**

**9. Lucky**

_Do you hear me, talking to you, yeah,_

_Across the water, across the deep, blue,_

_Ocean, under the open sky, oh my,_

_Baby, I'm trying._

One would think that after bartending for three years, Gillian Beilschmidt wouldn't get hangovers so bad, she felt as though the Brooklyn Zoo was staging a revolution inside her head.

"One would think" being the key words in that sentence.

"Ugh, Franny, you fucking _arshloch_," the Prussian groaned into the unwanted sunlight pouring into her bedroom (and the even more unwanted French ninny illuminated by it, wearing nothing but heart-patterned underwear, and _really, _Francis, nobody wants to see your hairy chest, no matter what you think) at nine A.M. one pleasant Sunday morning. "Why. Why would you _do_ this to me? Do you not understand the purpose of … of Sunday mornings?" She rolled over onto her bare front as she talked, so the last few words came out as more of an animalistic groan.

The fucking _arshloch_ chuckled, because he never suffered from hangovers (though whether that was from willpower or serious alcohol tolerance, the world may never know.) "I understand the purpose, _cherie_, but I think more important matters are at hand than your current migraine."

"Migraine, what migraine?" Gillian asked defensively. "I never suffer from migraines! I'm far too awesome to be defeated by a mere migraine!"

"Oh, that's right, you just suffer from _hangovers_," Francis replied, clearly too amused for his own good.

"Look, just tell me whatever the hell you woke me up me for, so that I can go take a shower or something because I can't go back to sleep because you _woke me up at nine on a Sunday morning,_" the albino girl practically snarled.

"Fine, fine, no need to be so PMS-y," the Frenchman told her. "And the early hour is necessary, really. I could be wrong, but I'm ninety-two-point-five percent sure you want to see this before Matt realizes he left it here and comes by to pick it up."

Well. Okay. That may have gotten her attention. Perhaps. A little.

"Matt left _what_ here?" she demanded, sitting up in bed.

Francis gave an appreciative whistle at her exposed chest (she didn't know why he bothered—it was nothing he hadn't seen before, after all) and answered, "Oh, nothing."

"_Francis Louis Bonnefoy,_" she said, glaring at him with all of the force of a Homestuck who was misled about an update, "tell me what Mattie left here, before I _skin you and then string you up by your dick?_"

He grinned in return, not at all deterred by the threat. "Well, you know, he came over here last night to pine, after you ditched the Monty Python marathon in favor of that guy you picked up—nice choice, by the way, I liked his ass, though it could never be as fine as our _Antoine_'s—and he acted all depressed and brooding and basically took up my entire couch while we watched crappy soap opera reruns. I'm just such a nice cousin, aren't I?" Francis complemented himself, his hand on his heart.

"Get _on_ with it," Gillian snapped at him, trying not to show how guilty she felt for abandoning Mattie (but hey, that guy had been hot, and the sex had been great.)

"Well _sor_-ry," the Frenchman retorted, rolling his eyes. "But anyway. He left around three, not too long before you staggered in, actually, and … He may or may not have left his journal here."

"His _journal_?" the Prussian gasped, suddenly fully awake. "_The_ journal? The one he never lets leave his side, for fear of us stealing it, reading it, and making fun of the things inside it until the end of time and beyond?"

Francis nodded solemnly. "The very same."

Gil was out of bed and across the apartment so quickly, she broke the sound barrier twice.

The journal was a simple, unassuming spiral notebook, with "I WOULD REALLY LIKE IT IF YOU WOULD KINDLY KEEP OUT PLEASE, IF IT'S ALL THE SAME TO YOU, EH" written in small, red letters on the front, accompanied by a doodle of a maple leaf. Gillian could barely believe it—she'd wanted to get her hands on this book for so long, had been dying to confirm her suspicions, see if her feelings were reciprocated … It was like a dream come true, complete with health benefits and a decent pension.

"Out," she ordered Francis, and unceremoniously shoved him out the door before curling back up on her rumpled covers, still unashamedly nude.

She opened the book almost reverently, then flipped from page to page, trying to read everything at once. Paragraphs jumped out at her, paragraphs with her name, paragraphs spilling words of increasing interest:

"_Gillian is so confident, so absolutely sure that she's the best thing in her universe, and it makes her strong and powerful and basically awesome. I don't know how she does it. I wish I knew how she did it, because maybe if I was strong and powerful and basically awesome the way she is, I'd be able to tell her how I feel ..."_

"_Last night, Gillian and I were up until three A.M. cracking Portal 2, and afterwards, she was so tired she crashed and fell asleep on my shoulder, and I couldn't go to sleep. I had to savor every moment of her head on my shoulder, her silvery hair cascading down and pooling in the corners of my shirt, our hearts beating with the same rhythm …"_

"_Today's Valentine's Day. It might as well be any other day, because I didn't get any valentines. Nobody ever remembers me, not on the day of love. Nobody loves me. I mean, maybe Gil does, a little, but not the way I wish she would. I hope she's having fun screwing her boyfriend …"_

"_I know who I am, I know my place. I'm the token best friend, the one who's too shy and too cowardly to tell her how he feels, the one who she doesn't ever look at the way she looks at every other guy. Except for she doesn't need a token best friend. She doesn't need a shoulder to cry on when she gets dumped, because she's always the one doing the dumping. I love that about her, but I'm scared someday she'll realize she doesn't need me, and I won't be able to make do with being the token best friend any more …"_

"_Gil says that I need to see myself as awesome. She's always telling me that if I told myself I was awesome, I'd be more successful in life—I'd give myself confidence, she says. She even gave me a list of reasons why she thinks I'm awesome: nice, polite, great at video games, great listener, kind, generous, basically a big Canadian teddy bear of sweetness … Well, none of those things are 'hot' or 'sexy' or 'someone I'd want to date,' so clearly I've failed. Not that that wasn't anything I already knew. But still, at least she thinks I'm sweet. That's good. I guess. Maybe …"_

As Gillian flipped through the pages, reading Matt's thoughts and feelings and secrets, she wondered how she had ever doubted that he loved her. It had been clear in his face all along, hadn't it? His adorable, perfect, blushing face …

But he was the stupid one, wasn't he, because with all of his perception and his quiet intelligence, he hadn't noticed that she loved him back.

Matthew Williams, you angsty little_ imbecile_.

And then, she turned to the most recent entry, one from the previous night:

"_Sometimes, I feel as though I'm shouting my feelings for Gillian to her across some sort of huge ocean, only she can't hear me because of all of the wind and the roaring of the waves._

"_Tonight, for example—we were sitting at the bar during her break and I was noticing (for the millionth time) how pretty she is when she laughs at my stupid puns or makes casual fun of my clothes or my glasses or my Canadian-ness, and then she suddenly gasped and pointed across the room._

"'_Mattie, isn't that guy just the hottest thing you've ever seen in your entire life? Except for me, of course.'_

"_I'd love to say that she was kidding, pointing at some fat loser who'd be lucky to attract a short-sighted flea, but … The guy really was attractive, all tall and dark and confident. Not like me at all._

"_I wanted to walk over there and punch him in the face, impressing Gil with my manliness, and then sweep her off her feet like a prince in an old-fashioned fairy tale, but I couldn't. I simply asserted his hotness, then, in a small, quiet voice, asked, 'But do you really want him? I mean, he's probably a jerk, and you could do better.' You could do me, I added silently._

"_She didn't hear me._

"_Sometimes, I wonder if she even realizes I'm a guy._

"'_I bet __I could get into his pants in thirty minutes flat__,' she said, grinning that sexy, feral, challenge-accepted grin that says she's about to do something stupid and crazy and I'll want her even more for it._

"_She started to get up, to swish the ass I want so goddamned much over to a man who hadn't known her ten seconds, while I'd known her ten years._

"'_I thought we were going to go back to my place and have a Monty Python marathon tonight, though,' I protested, hoping I didn't sound as pathetic and needy as I felt._

"_Gillian turned just long enough to rumple my hair as though I was five years old, smile condescendingly, and reply, 'Sorry, Mattie, but things don't always go as planned. I mean, you're a great friend and all, but you aren't … _that_.'_

"_I looked at _that_, wondering what was so great about it. Why Gillian wanted _that_ and not me._

"_She spent the night with _that_. She's probably in his bed right now._

"_I'm spending the night watching soap operas with Francis while he has phone sex with three different girls (and one guy, and possibly also a lamp, I really don't know) at once, trying to figure out what I did wrong._

"_I've been trying to tell you I love you for years, Gil, but I'm just not awesome enough for you, am I?"_

_Boy, I hear you, in my dreams,_

_Feel you whisper, across the sea,_

_Keep you with me, in my heart,_

_You make it easier when life is hard._

"_Scheisse_," Gillian whispered, dropping the journal on the floor. She watched it land with a soft _thud_ on the hardwood, then decided that a simple _thud_ wasn't expressive enough.

She picked the journal back up.

"_SCHEISSE!_" the albino shouted, throwing the notebook against the wall as hard as she could, leaving a small dent (in the wall, not the notebook.)

Outside, having established himself in an oddly elegant sprawl on the living room couch, Francis was painstakingly examining his fingernails. Muffled crashing noises and curses sounded from behind the closed bedroom door. He'd found a rather lovely shade of blue polish at Sephora the other day, one that perfectly matched his deep turquoise eyes; he might try it out that evening …

A disturbingly forceful blast caused the Frenchman to start slightly in shock, and he sighed disapprovingly. Rising from the couch, he strolled back to Gillian's door.

"Are you quite finished?" he asked politely, poking his silky blonde head back into the room.

"I'm only getting started," Gillian growled, narrowly missing her friend's head with a hurtling throw pillow.

Francis quickly absconded and leaned against the wall outside her door, waiting patiently. She let out a stream of curses that went on for about ten minutes and made him very glad he didn't understand German.

"Okay," she called with a deep sigh, "now I'm quite finished."

"Excellent," Francis replied cheerfully, stepping back into her room. She was bent over, digging a pair of skinny jeans – _fightin'_ jeans – out of her bottom drawer, and he paused to appreciate the view. "That means we can start working on a master plan for that cowardly Canadian cousin of mine to finally ask you out."

"_Finally_ is right," the Prussian agreed in an uncharacteristically anxious voice, straightening up and hopping around as she wriggled into the pants. "I can't see why he hasn't done it before. I mean, I've done nothing but drop hints that I want to be more than friends. Well, that and flirt with every hot guy that walks into the bar … But that's only to make him jealous! Well, mostly to make him jealous. I need my sausage, if you know what I mean. But if Matt hates it so much, he should just ask me out and be done with it! I may not be the most responsible chick around, but I'm not a cheater! I can deal with not being able to flirt if I get Mattie! I just don't see why …"

Her friend sighed, returned to the couch, and turned on the TV to a bad Spanish soap that Lovino watched religiously.

"She isn't quite finished," he muttered, listening to the albino yelp and curse violently as her elbow knocked against a drawer.

Francis knew better than to bother asking why Gillian hadn't gone ahead and taken the initiative herself, with her usual brassy confidence. Matthew wasn't one of her one-night boys, someone she could plow through and leave dazed and starstruck in her path. Gillian used her body like a whip, but when it came to someone she couldn't lash, she was confused and wary – and things got broken, he noted wryly, thinking of the sheetrock powder steadily falling from her now-holed ceiling.

He crossed one long leg over the other, watching the handsome Spaniard on the screen tell the big-eyed young woman to live her life while she could. Ah, the trials of l'amour.

_They don't know how long it takes,__  
__Waiting for a love like this._

At first, when Lovino saw two thirds of the Bad Touch Trio hurry into _Il Stomaco Felice_ one Sunday afternoon with determined glints in their eyes, he wasn't particularly worried. Sure, they were probably about to enact some insane scene they'd concocted and maybe get themselves thoroughly mortified, but that was nothing out of the usual, and perhaps it would even be funny (Lovino wasn't one to turn away schadenfreude if the opportunity ever arose.)

When they made a beeline for the last third of their stupid, perverted trio and dragged him into a storage room for an "urgent discussion," however, the Italian did start to worry, just a little.

After all, Antonio was new to the whole manner of their scheming! Well, maybe not new, exactly, he had been friends with them in middle school, but surely their plans in middle school hadn't been as dangerous or as humiliating as their plans could be now. Well, maybe they had been, but it had been years since Antonio had participated. What if he didn't want to? What if he was being peer pressured into some stupid scheme to, Lovino didn't know, rob all of Aldrich's underwear in the night or something equally daring?

It wasn't that Lovino was worried for Antonio or anything—no, why would you think that? He was merely worried for his own integrity; as Antonio's roommate, he had a responsibility for the careless Spaniard, to make sure that he wouldn't get into any trouble, because if he did, it would reflect badly upon Lovino. Of course. That was the only plausible explanation.

At least, that was what Lovino told himself, when he surreptitiously snuck up to the door of the storage room and listened for their eager, badly concealed whispers.

"This plan is so awesome, it _has_ to work!" That was obviously Gillian.

"Indeed. And it was conjured up by _mois_, the king of _l'amour_, so it cannot fail us." And that was Francis, agreeing.

"Hey, I helped!" Gil, again.

"Yes, but I came up with the whole plan!"

"I came up with the idea!"

"No, I picked the idea out of your endless, pointless ranting about how stupid Matt is."

Matt …? So the plan must have something to do with ... uh … Arthur's brother-in-law, right …? Lovino figured. (That was who Matt was, right?) Whoever it was, he shuddered at the thought of what the Bad Touch Trio might have planned for him. Although, perhaps it wouldn't be too bad—Gillian liked the boy a lot, he vaguely remembered, if Lovino's attraction senses were anything to go by. Which they were, because he was Italian, and a badass, and a secret lover of romantic comedy. Shut up. But then again, maybe playing mean pranks on him was her way of showing attraction … The gender roles did seem pretty reversed in their relationship, after all, at least from what he could recall of it.

Lovino shook the speculation from his head, instead concentrating on eavesdropping.

"But … This might just be me being ignorant again, but I still don't see how this will work," Antonio was saying, pretty loudly (didn't he know the definition of the word _whisper_?). "I mean, Matt gets jealous all the time, right? At least that's what you said? So why will this be any different?"

Jealousy? This was getting interesting.

"Because—" Gil started to explain, but Francis cut her off:

"Because before, he was just getting jealous of random guys that he didn't know. But with you … You guys are, well, not friends exactly, but you know him. He'll be a lot more jealous of you, especially if you manage to pull off everything to the extent of our plan with your acting. If he sees this as more than just a one night stand, or a couple of dates, but something to be really jealous of—something very similar to what he wants—then he might get _really_ jealous."

"He might even go into Badass Canadian Motherfucker Mode," Gillian added, sounding rather excited considering what she was talking about. Lovino winced—he remembered that side of Matthew Williams with crystal clarity. Badass Canadian Motherfucker Mode was a very rare occurrence (usually a result of Matt getting either really drunk or really pissed off) that involved Matt becoming, basically, a Badass Canadian Motherfucker. It was more terrifying than Bellatrix Lestrange on a caffeine high.

"Oh. Okay," Antonio said, not sounding entirely convinced. "But … Why do I have to do it? Why not you, Francis?"

Gillian and Francis sighed in unison. "I can't sing, and I'm Matt's cousin," the Frenchman stated simply.

Lovino was starting to get seriously curious, like killing-the-cat curious, but he couldn't listen any longer, because just then, he heard a call from the kitchen:

"Looo-viiii~! Could you come back here, please? I dropped my chopping knife, and I can't find where I put it!"

"Coming, Feli," the Italian shouted back, shaking his head in exasperation with his sister's clumsiness. Oh, well. He'd just have to try and figure out the plot more later, to see how much he needed to warn Matt about.

_Every time we say goodbye,__  
__I wish we had one more kiss.__  
__I'll wait for you, I promise you, I will._

**From: The Awesome Me**

**To: Birdie**

_**Hey, Mattie, sorry I ditched our Monty Python marathon last weekend. Wanna make it up this Saturday night instead?**_

**From: me**

**To: Gil**

_**It's fine, really. But yeah, sure. Sounds great.**_

**From: The Awesome Me**

**To: Birdie**

_**Awesome! Can you come down to the restaurant around, say, eight? My shift leaves at nine this Saturday (Luddy owes me) so we can start earlier for max hilariosity.**_

**From: me**

**To: Gil**

_**Okay, yeah. See you then?**_

**From: The Awesome Me**

**To Birdie:**

_**Hell yeah. Spend the week preparing for awesome beyond your wildest dreams ;)**_

_And so I'm sailing through the sea,__  
__To an island where we'll meet.__  
__You'll hear the music fill the air,__  
__I'll put a flower in your hair._

It was a pretty normal Saturday night for _Il Stomaco Felice_ when Matt stepped inside—Antonio was playing something with quick, oddly poetic lyrics; some people were dancing along; others were sitting at the bar, slouched over a cup or leaning into someone else; good food and good wine were flowing; and getting a drink for himself was nearly impossible, what with the Canadian's passive nature.

Or … Maybe it wasn't a normal Saturday night, because Gil wasn't manning the bar—Lovino was, in her place.

Matt, having decided not to bother trying to get a drink, leaned against the bar, scanning the crowd for that familiar head of silvery hair, glistening blue eyes, and distinctive laugh. He didn't see her for a couple of minutes, and was starting to get worried when—oh, there she was.

Gillian looked stunning—well, she always looked stunning, but that night she looked particularly stunning, in a teasingly short ice-blue dress (probably not suited for the November weather at all, but when had she ever cared about that) the color of her eyes, her favorite high-heeled boots, and the aquamarine-studded necklace Matt had given her for a birthday present two years previously.

But wait … Why was she jumping onto the stage to stand beside Antonio? Why was she grabbing a microphone? Why was she looking at him—not looking at him, but _looking_ at him, _smiling_ at him, as though he was the best thing in her life? Why was he looking back at her the same way?

And why, why oh why _oh God why_, was she _grabbing his hand_?

"Hey, everyone," Gil said into the microphone, grinning as she heard her voice reverberate around the restaurant. A bewildered silence fell as people looked up to see one of their beloved barista taking the stage. "I'm sure most of you know me, Gil, the most awesome barista to ever fix a drink ever."

There were a few cheers—she _was_ an awesome barista, although perhaps not as good as she liked to tell people.

"And I'm sure you also know Antonio here, who's a great singer, and also has a _very_ fine ass," she continued, grabbing aforementioned ass for emphasis.

More cheers followed that second statement—but Matt couldn't help noticing that the ass-grab wasn't friendly and teasing, the way she and Francis usually did it, but possessive, as though Gil was making it clear that that ass belonged to _her_.

"Well, Antonio and I were close friends back in middle school," the Prussian explained, "and now that he's made his way back to Philly, we're close friends again. Something a lot of you don't know about me is that I'm actually a pretty awesome singer myself, and something a scant few of you know about me—or, well, I guess all of you are going to know in a second—is that I'm in love with my best friend."

And Matt's world stopped.

"_In love with my best friend_._"_

Those were his words, that was his line. He'd said it to himself a thousand times, written it in his journal and whispered it sadly before going to sleep, pretended that he was talking to Gillian when he knew he could never tell her. He knew he was only her best friend, and could never be anything more …

But now, with those words, he realized that he'd never even been that.

Gil may have been his best friend, but he'd never been hers. It had been Antonio, it had always been Antonio. All of those guys she'd slept with, she'd wanted Antonio, and now she finally had him, and she loved him, and Matt was going to get tossed by the side like a used tissue while Antonio got everything Matt had ever wanted.

The Canadian was suddenly struck by a wave of hatred that engulfed him, threatened to drown him in its watery clutches. _Antonio_, it whispered, _hate Antonio_.

Matt fought back the wave, snarled at it, pushed at it until it relented. He couldn't hate Antonio. He could be jealous, sure, more jealous than he'd ever thought was possible—"_in love with my best friend"_—but he couldn't hate Antonio. Not when he made Gillian look so happy like that.

They were singing a duet, now—singing about how lucky they were to have each other, words that Matt had wanted to say to Gillian, words that he might even have written himself, hearing them left a gaping hole in his chest. He wanted to run away and hide in some dark corner, or maybe go back in time to before this had ever happened, but he couldn't tear himself away—not when Gil was singing so beautifully, in a voice that had never sounded so tender before, as though her dreams were coming true.

When the song ended, though, and Gil gave Antonio—her boyfriend—a kiss on the cheek and leapt down off of the stage to a chorus of "_aww_"s, Matt decided that, you know what, maybe a drink wouldn't be a bad idea.

It took him a few minutes, but he eventually managed to attract Lovino's attention and request the tallest glass of beer he could find.

"You need a hell of a lot of alcohol to forget what just happened there, huh?" Lovino asked, sounding unusually sympathetic for his normally crude nature.

Matt sighed, saying nothing. Talking about his jealousy and disappointment wasn't going to help matters any.

"I don't think you need to forget about it, though," the Italian continued, his voice growing softer, but somehow more commanding at the same time.

The Canadian turned to stare at him, confused.

"Because, well, maybe you're interpreting it wrong," Lovino told him. "I overheard Gil, Francis, and Antonio planning something a few days ago, and the plan had to do with making you jealous, and Antonio acting. Maybe Gil was telling the truth with what she said, but maybe she wasn't talking about Antonio. She said they were close, but she didn't say he was her best friend, did she?" he finished, sounding pleased with himself for figuring that one out.

"But who else could she be talking about?" Matt asked mournfully. "Except maybe Francis, but it couldn't be Francis."

Lovino gave him his patented glare, the one that was supposed to melt metal (it usually didn't, but it was still pretty strong, especially for an Italian.) "_You_, you stupid fucker."

"No," the Canadian said with a sigh, "she doesn't realize I'm a guy."

"How do you know that?"

"I just … I just … Um …"

"Exactly," Lovino barked. "You don't. And maybe what I'm saying is true. So you should go ask her."

Well, this was an interesting turn of events … Matt wasn't used to Lovino giving him love advice, but what if he was telling the truth? No, he couldn't be, Gillian had looked in love when she sang that song. But in love with Antonio? Thinking back on it, she'd never really seemed to look at the Spaniard that way … But she was closed about her feelings sometimes … But then … But maybe …

Matt allowed a tiny glimmer of hope to shine on his moldy, crunched-up despair, resurrecting his spirit just a little.

He could ask her, he figured. It couldn't be that bad. If Lovino was wrong, then he couldn't sink any lower than he'd already fallen, and if he was right, then … He couldn't even let himself think about that, for fear of getting too excited.

And besides, Gil had always been saying that he should grow a pair, become more confident. Maybe this was his chance.

Lovino, seeing Matt's face harden with newfound determination, grinned triumphantly. He was in his element, after all – Italian matchmaking couldn't be beat. "I think she went outside a minute ago."

"Thanks," Matt said—and, for the first time in his life, he actually shoved a couple of people out of the way in his rush to get to the door.

_Though the breezes through the trees,__  
__Move so pretty, you're all I see.__  
__As the world keeps spinning round,__  
__You hold me right here right now._

Gillian shouldn't have worn that blue dress.

It was pretty, sure, one of her favorite dresses, and it showed off her curves well, but it kind-of was a summer dress. No intelligent person wears a summer dress in November.

Well, unless, of course, she's trying to catch herself a man, but maybe that's not a very good reason, she thought as she leaned against the brick side of the restaurant at eight thirty on a chilly November evening with just one of Luddy's giant sweatshirts for warmth, trying her best not to huddle. She slid out the cigarette she'd never removed from her purse and flicked the lighter with an ease she hadn't forgotten, inhaling deeply and feeling the nicotine sooth her thudding veins. Gil wasn't sure why she was still standing there, really—she should be off at some other bar, some bar where nobody knew her, forgetting how horribly the plan had failed.

Matt was supposed to get incredibly jealous and confront her, not look like a little boy who'd just discovered what being kicked in the balls felt like. He was probably going to quietly and sadly remove himself from her life, then drop back into obscurity and loneliness, and … No. She couldn't have that.

She couldn't lose him.

She couldn't lose him, so she was going to go back inside and find him and drag him to someplace where half the bar couldn't hear them and she was going to tell him everything and beg for his forgiveness. Well, maybe not beg, Gillian was too awesome to beg, but she was going to do whatever it took to take that look of despair off of his face, even if she had to lose some of her admittedly ample pride in the process—

"Gil."

… Oh. Okay. She didn't have to go back inside, then.

Gil opened her mouth to say something to Matt, anything, but she found that she couldn't—with all of her bravery, all of her confidence, she didn't know where to start, because she knew, with crushing certainty, that nothing she could say would help.

His eyes slid down to the glowing cigarette. "I thought you quit." His voice held a painfully accusatory tone.

She tipped back her head and breathed out a cloud of smoke, watched it curl into the crisp night air. "I did."

An awful silence stretched out between them. Luckily for her, he spoke first.

"Gil, is Antonio really your best friend?"

She shook her head "no," but maybe it was too dark or the movement was too slight, because Matt didn't seem to see it.

"Is Antonio really your best friend?" he repeated, more loudly. "Because I don't think he is. Maybe you guys were friends in middle school, but he wasn't around for ten years, and I was. I know you. I know what you think about right before you go to sleep, and what your dreams are, and what your fears are, and which video games you'll play until three A.M. I know how scared you are that Louise is going to distance herself from you, and how you think that Aldrich isn't proud of you, and how when you sleep with guys, you never look at their faces." His voice broke, and her heart wrenched. "A-and I know how confident you are, how good you are at putting on a brave face and laughing when you're afraid. I know that you're strong, and almost as awesome as you tell us you are. So why is Antonio your best friend, and not … not me?"

Gillian started to say something, but he just kept talking—now that he'd found his voice, he wasn't going to stop.

"I don't get it. Maybe I'm wrong, and you and he have some connection that I don't see, but I … I don't really think that's it. I don't think Antonio could feel the way I do. I don't think … I don't think he loves you as much as I do. I don't think he finds you to be the most beautiful person in the world, or wakes up in the middle of the night with a burning ache in his chest because you aren't sleeping beside him, or dreams of spending the rest of his life with you—"

With every word that Matt said, Gil felt something in her chest start to rise up, bursting out and singing with joy, because reading words like that in his journal was one thing, but hearing him actually say them, watching his face as he practically yelled to the entire world that he loved her, was another.

And she felt that if she didn't take a firm handful of Matthew Williams' t-shirt and yank him down to kiss him squarely right then and there, she'd die.

So she did.

Kiss him, that is. (Not die, of course, that would be terrible.)

At first, Matt made a little noise of confusion as his rant was stifled by Gillian's lips, but as she pressed in further, winding her arms around his neck, he gave in and kissed back, letting himself enjoy something he'd wanted for so long.

She pulled away after a minute (or possibly an hour, or possibly several sunlit days) to grin at him, and say, "Perfect."

"What?" he asked.

She ignored the question, instead pressing a kiss to his ear and whispering, "Sexy" as he shivered.

"Amazing," she added to his cheek.

"Adorable," to his nose.

"Sweet," to his collarbone.

"Loving," to his neck.

And finally, she lifted her head to look straight into his eyes—his lovely, confused but so happy violet eyes—and finished, "My best friend."

"O-_oh_," Matt stammered, and then he was grinning, as though he'd just been given everything he'd wanted—which he sort-of had.

"Are you willing to believe I think you're awesome, now?" Gil asked.

He gaped at her, then nodded a little.

"Good," she said, smiling. "And, uh, the whole thing with Antonio … It was a play, to make you jealous, and I'm really sorry about it. The song … I was singing it with him, but I wrote it for you. So—"

This time, it was Mattie who cut her off with a kiss.

_Lucky I'm in love with my best friend,__  
__Lucky to have been where I have been,__  
__Lucky to be coming home again.__  
__Lucky we're in love in every way,__  
__Lucky to have stayed where we have stayed,__  
__Lucky to be coming home someday._

**From: The Awesome Me**

**To: Frenchy, Churro**

_**The **__**operation**__** was a success. Thanks, guys. :)**_


	10. Mr Curiosity

**I'm so sorry this chapter is late-I'm on vacation, and internet access is difficult. (First my dad wouldn't let me use his computer, then the internet stopped working ... Basically not good.)**

**But the next chapter won't be late, I promise! (I've already written it. :D)**

**Also, a warning: this chapter contains angst. And also Edelweiss. And, um, Roderich being obnoxious and obsessed with the piano (read: basically me, only more vocal about it). And a little bit of male!Belarus/Liechtenstein. (What? It's cute!)**

**So, um, enjoy ...**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES  
10. Mr. Curiosity**

_Hey, Mr. Curiosity,  
Is it true what they've been saying about you,  
Well, are you killing me?_

"I think I need to learn another instrument," Antonio announced to Gillian and Francis one afternoon a few days later. Francis was in the process of fixing some sort of über-complicated chicken-and-spinach dish, and he had enlisted the other two-thirds of the Bad Touch Trio to pass him things every so often. (He couldn't ask Felicia to do it, partially because she had three pots of pasta to keep an eye on and partially because she was the clumsiest chef to ever live, including Francis' friend Heracles, who had once dropped a skillet of some odd Greek food that took five hours to make on his foot.)

Gil stopped ranting about how cute Mattie was when he did basically everything for a moment, and asked, "Why? You're great at the guitar, why do you need to know another instrument?"

The Spaniard shrugged. "I dunno, I just feel like it would be nice to be more multi-talented. And I could write more different styles of music that way. It would be cool, and then I'd have something else to do while Lovino's at the university."

"I think-hey, Gil, pass me that tomato, would you-the piano would probably be good for you," Francis said, not looking up from his concoction.

"Sure," Antonio agreed. "It can't be too hard, can it?"

"I think Roddy would have your head for saying that," Gillian contradicted him. "He's always going on about how the piano is a noble art, the most difficult and worthy of all of the instruments, blah blah blah …"

"Who's Roddy?" Antonio wanted to know.

"Gil's cousin, Roderich," Francis explained. "Remember him? He's become completely obsessed with classical music, especially piano music. He runs this piano store a few blocks away, and gives lessons on the side to make extra money."

"Do you think he'd give me lessons?" the Spaniard wondered. This whole piano idea was starting to sound pretty exciting, even though he did remember Roderich (he'd been a grade above them in school) and the prospect of spending hours of lesson time with him wasn't exactly a pleasant one. _But then again,_ Antonio thought, perking up, _maybe I can use that lesson time to help him become a nicer person~! Yeah, that would be great._

"I dunno about that," the Frenchman replied, reaching for the salt shaker. "He's pretty expensive, not to mention exclusive."

"Oh." All of the brilliant ideas Antonio had just concocted as to how he might win Roderich over drooped over and died, just like that.

But wait! Gillian had that grin on-her I've Got an Awesome Plan grin. "Roddy owes me, you know," she informed the two men. "I can definitely persuade him to take you on, Antonio-for free, even."

"Really?" the Spaniard asked, excited again.

"Yeah," Gil asserted. "Just let me call him."

It took a surprisingly short amount of time for the Prussian to "persuade" her cousin to teach Antonio how to play the piano-her side of the conversation consisted of only seven lines:

"Roddy! How're you doing, significantly-less-awesome cousin of mine?"

"Awesome, of course. Hey, I have a favor to ask. I've got this friend, right, Antonio-you remember Antonio, from when we were in middle school? Spanish, airheaded, and the best guitar player on the East Coast?"

"Yeah, him. So he's back in town, and he wants piano lessons. I was thinking you could give them to him-for a fair price, of course."

"Of course I mean free. No other possible payment is awesome enough."

"You _will_ give him free lessons, Roddy … Unless you want me to tell your new boyfriend that, when we were younger, you-"

"I thought not. So you'll see him tomorrow at two?"

"Great. You're the best, Roddy! I owe you one."

"He'll see you tomorrow at two," Gil told Antonio as she hung up. "Have fun."

_Call it mystery or anything,  
Oh just as long as you call me,  
I sent the message on did you get it when I left it._

_Beep. Beep. Beeeeep._

The sudden ringing of the phone was a welcome distraction to Lili Zwigli-she hadn't wanted to do that math homework at all. She hopped off of her bed, careful to ignore the various notebooks, folders, and textbooks strewn upon it, and reached for the phone.

Before she could say ask who was calling, somebody practically wailed on the other end, "_Vaaaaaassshhhh! _Gillian's blackmailing me _again_!"

"Oh, come on, Roddy, it can't be that bad," Lili's brother replied from somewhere else in the house-he must have picked up at the same time as she did. She knew the polite thing would be to hang up and let Vash have his conversation in private, but … This Roddy guy, whoever he was, sounded interesting, way more interesting than Vash's usual strictly-business calls.

She tried to breathe as quietly as possible, and kept listening.

"But it _is_ that bad!" the guy, Roddy, complained. "She's making me give lessons-_free _lessons-to this old friend of hers who went to elementary and middle school with us, this incredibly stupid Spaniard who apparently wants to learn piano so that he can 'expand his interests' or something! He already knows the guitar and sings decently, what does he need piano for? And why do _I_ have to give him free lessons? I'm the best teacher in Philadelphia, I can't go around giving free lessons to just anyone! And I'm sure he doesn't have a piano, so he'll probably have to come in every day just to practice, and-"

"Roderich," Vash said calmly, "That honestly doesn't sound like the end of the world. If he plays the guitar, he must have at least some talent and some sort of appreciation for music, right? So he'll be easier to teach than those spoiled, my-mother-said-I-was-_perfect_ brats you usually get stuck with."

"I … I guess," Roddy admitted. "But come on, Vash," he added, more annoyed, "you're supposed to _comfort_ me about this kind of stuff!"

_Supposed to comfort him_? Lili wondered. What kind of relationship did her brother have with this guy, anyway? Her curiosity level was rising faster than the rage level of a fangirl who has just had her OTP insulted.

"Sorry, I was just trying to make things better in a rational manner," Vash replied, not sounding sorry in the slightest.

"_Speaking_ of your duties," the man on the other end of the conversation went on, apparently not having heard Vash, "why don't you ever call me? You tell me to wait for you to call, and then you don't call me! What's going on?"

"Oh, well …" Vash sounded a bit nervous-Lili was worried. "I guess … I'm too busy at work, and then, at home, I have to be really careful, because I don't want Lili to find out I have a boyfriend …"

Oh. Well. That made sense.

Wait …

Lili pressed the "end call" button quickly, so that her gasp wouldn't be audible to Vash and Roddy.

A boyfriend?

A _boyfriend_?!

Vash, her stoic, antisocial brother who had never had a serious relationship for as long as she could remember, had a _boyfriend_?!

And, more importantly, he didn't want to _tell her_?!

This was big. Oh, this was _very_ big.

_I'm a Mr. waiting on and never patient can't you see,  
That I'm the same the way you left me, left me,  
In a hurry to spell check me._

The piano shop was basically a shrine to pianos. It was spacious, dimly lit, and plain, with simple whitewash adorning the walls and framed paintings of more pianos (who would've guessed) as the sole decorations. Decorations weren't really necessary, though, because the contents of the store were more than enough to catch the eye of any passerby who happened to glance at them. Grand pianos were everywhere: black grand pianos, white grand pianos, big grand pianos, small grand pianos, fancy grand pianos with engraved gold lettering, cheap grand pianos with peeling paint, old grand pianos, new grand pianos, even one magenta, bedazzled grand piano.

Antonio ran his hand along a smallish piano, pure white with simple, black letters reading, "YAMAHA" along the bottom of the music stand. He was about to try out one of the keys when he heard someone behind him.

"Get your dirty, violating paws off of my instrument!"

Upon turning around, Antonio saw that he was being glared at, rather viciously, by a clearly pissed off man in a fancy, cream-colored jacket with gold buttons.

"Roddy!" Antonio exclaimed, recognizing the man from his memories of that prissy young kid he'd known back in grade school.

"Roderich, please," he corrected haughtily. "Gillian does not have my permission to use that name, you know."

Roderich Edelstein was an Austrian and a mousy sort of man, but not mousy in that he was timid or shy-no, he was one of those mice that will stop at nothing to get its cheese, even if it has to stare down cats ten times its size; he was one of those mice that is proud to be a mouse, and shows it by dressing in the nicest clothes and proclaiming how great mice are at every opportunity; he was one of those mice that make other mice either feel inadequate about their mousiness or endlessly irritated by his prissiness. Roderich had an aristocratic hairstyle (gelled into perfect curls, with one odd curl sticking up in front), an aristocratic face (richly rounded, and always pouting in disapproval at someone), aristocratic eyes (large, bluish-purple, and smirking constantly), an aristocratic voice (stuck and prone to use too large words), and he did _not_ care to be known as Roddy.

So, of course, that was what Antonio called him.

"I'm ready for my piano lesson, Roddy~!"

Roderich groaned, made a mental note to confront Gillian about the blasted nickname business, and asked, "So, which piano would you like to use?"

Antonio scanned the room, searching for the perfect piano, then eventually decided on the one he'd been trying out previously. "This one~!"

The Austrian raised an eyebrow, surprised. "That's an unusual choice. Most people would ignore that piano in favor of this one." He indicated the piano closet to Antonio's, a large, fancy piano made of rich mahogany wood with impossible-to-rich gold lettering proclaiming, "STEINWAY AND SONS."

Antonio eyed that piano, then looked back at the one he'd chosen. "I like my piano better," he decided. "It's cuter."

"It's _cuter_," Roderich repeated, scoffing, then sat down at the Steinway. He lifted his hands, about to play, then dropped them abruptly and turned back to Antonio. "And I suppose you're going to have to come here every day to practice, correct?"

"Huh?" the Spaniard said, surprised. "I don't think so …"

"Oh, come on, don't tell me _Lovino Vargas_ owns a decent piano," Roderich replied with a condescending grin.

"He doesn't, no, but there's a keyboard at _Il Stomaco Felice_, I could always use that …"

"A keyboard," the Austrian echoed, pronouncing the word with the sort of disgusted air one uses when disposing of dog poop. "A _keyboard._ A _KEYBOARD_. _Keyboards_, Antonio, are not fit to even gaze upon any piano player worth my spit. _Keyboards_ are an abomination, a stain upon the noble name of piano. _Keyboards_ are disgraceful: difficult to play on, keys not giving the right touch, easily breakable, the most horrid pedals, and all of those _distortions_ and _noises_ they can produce!" He shuddered, and Antonio wisely decided not to mention that he thought the noises keyboards could produce were pretty cool. "Whoever invented those _beasts_ of _hell_ should perish in those fiery flames himself for all of eternity. You cannot _play_ on a _keyboard_-you will not be able to get even close to the sound you desire. And to _learn_ on a keyboard … Well, your abilities will forever be stunted. Really, Antonio, have you gotten even stupider since middle school?" Roderich finished, shaking his head and sighing.

"Okay, then, I'll come and practice here," Antonio said quickly, not wanting his teacher to go off on another angry rant.

"Of course you will," the pianist agreed, nodding. "You will be quiet, though-except for your playing-and not bother me. Questions can wait until our lessons. I'm only doing this as a favor to Gillian, you understand. I have no qualms about kicking you out if you prove to be too irritating."

"sounds fair," the Spaniard said.

"Now, before we begin, I need to tell you something about the piano," Roderich announced.

His student nodded eagerly, sitting down on the bench of the Yamaha and scooting closer to his teacher. He figured that another rant might be coming, but, well, maybe it would be interesting. And it wouldn't be about the deficiencies of keyboards this time, he hoped.

"the piano is an ancient creature of beauty and majesty," the Austrian began. "She has sang the music of humanity for centuries, from the baroque of Bach to the classical of Mozart to the romantic of Chopin to the contemporary of today. She loves to be played well-you can feel her strings vibrating, as though you have been blessed by some sort of higher power, when you play her well. I am only a humble student in the piano's history-I merely serve her, play upon her, and teach her grace to others. I will not be satisfied until she is satisfied-that is to say, I am not an easy teacher. If you want to learn to harness a true art, bring a melodious sound beneath your command, stay here and be obedient-obedient, but also passionate and creative-and I will teach you. If you merely want to use the piano for a lark, to show off to your friends or figure out how to play your favorite pop songs, leave now, for I cannot help you."

Antonio was … Well, impressed isn't quite a strong enough word for it. "I want to harness a true art and … And that other stuff you said," he told Roderich enthusiastically.

Roderich was pleased with this reaction to his speech. (He knew excitement for music when he saw it, and he could easily determine between true enthusiasm, fear, and my-mother-made-me-do-it.) "Then close your mouth, open your ears, and listen," he said.

Antonio closed his mouth, opened his ears, and listened-and Roderich played the most beautiful piece Antonio had ever heard. It started out slow and soft and sweet, like a procession of bridesmaids at a wedding, then gradually grew faster and more exciting until it reached a climax of pure sound, a forest in springtime or the height of a dance or a first kiss at just the right moment. The end of the piece was like the beginning, slow and soft and sweet, but different somehow, and it spoke of calm, of peace, of love.

Roderich let the last note hang in the air for a moment, then said, almost reverently, "That was Variations on Pachelbel's Kanon in D by George Winston. It's one of my favorite pieces, and it takes a lot more work than you might think. If you work hard and prove to be promising, I'll help you master it, too."

"Can we start now?" Antonio asked eagerly.

"No, you idiot, you can't play that _now_," the Austrian insulted him. "You have to work hard first."

"Oh," the student said.

"We'll start with a simple scale, then. Place your hand on the piano like this-no, round your fingers more, that's the way to get a good, rich sound-and do exactly as I do. Do … Re … Mi …"

_You took care of the cat already,  
And for those who think it's heavy,  
Is it the truth,  
Or is it only gossip?_

"Vash, do you have a boyfriend?"

The Swiss man halted halfway through his dinner, as though frozen in time by his little sister's question.

Vash Zwigly was a stern, dedicated man who rarely smiled. With his short, golden hair, light green eyes, and tall, slender figure (he was not unlike his sister in looks, except that she was shorter and, obviously, female), he didn't look much like a mother grizzly bear, but his stature was that of a bear, and in personality, he couldn't be anything but: intimidating, skilled with weaponry, quietly intelligent when he needed to be, and fiercely protective of the only family he had left: his sister, Lili.

When she had run away a few months previously, he had been terrified-what if she encountered thugs or kidnappers or rapists and wasn't strong enough to defend herself, or found herself jobless because she was too young to be hired, or fell off of her bicycle and couldn't get to the hospital in time? And, worse, why had she run away from him? She was the most important thing in his life, so how could she resent him so?

The moment Lili had returned, Vash had begged for her forgiveness on his knees. The compromises hadn't been easy, but they had been necessary, and they had been made.

Mother bears don't want to see their cubs leave the den. They want their cubs to be cubs forever. But Nature doesn't let that happen.

One of the compromises had been that Vash and Lili would always tell each other the truth, so Vash tried to then, in the face of that difficult question.

"How … How do you know about that?" he stammered.

Lili looked down at her chicken and potatoes, red with shame. "I picked up the phone earlier," she explained, "when he called, at the same time as you did, and … Well, I was curious. I listened to the whole conversation. I'm sorry. I know it was none of my business."

Vash was honestly a little relieved-at least she hadn't heard anything really embarrassing-but he was still a bit disappointed in his sister. "Curiosity killed the cat, you know," he said, "and eavesdropping is impolite."

"Sorry," Lili repeated. "I just … Why didn't you want me to find out?"

Oh, now the_ really_ hard question. But Lili deserved a true answer, so …

"I'm just a little scared, I guess," the Swiss man admitted. "I've never really had a successful relationship before, and telling you makes it … official."

The young girl grinned-this was a much better answer than what she had feared. "Aww," she said, "you must really like him, then. So," she added, leaning forward on the table, dinner forgotten, "what does he do? Is he cute?"

"That's why I avoided saying anything, really," Vash said jokingly, "to avoid the four-one-one."

Lili just looked at him expectanty.

After a few seconds of that, Vash gave in. (He really was a pushover when his sister was involved.) "His name's Roderich," he told her, "but he secretly likes it when you call him Roddy. He runs the piano store over in the Latin Quarter, and gives lessons besides. He's great, though-stingy, just like me, and he has an odd sense of humor, and he panics easily, which is actually kind-of cute …"

Well. It seemed as though Lili hadn't actually had to do that much interrogation, after all-Vash just kept talking.

When he was finally done, she said, "You know, I also have a boy that I like."

"_What_?!" Vash squawked. "Do I need to hunt him down and give him a good older brother-y lecture?"

Lili laughed at her brother's shaken expression. "No, brother, don't do that. He isn't my boyfriend-I just have a crush on him, is all. I just figured I'd tell you about him since you told me all about Roddy."

Successfully placated but still wary, Vash asked, "So, what's his name?"

"Nikolai. He's a junior, a year older, but I have band with him. He plays the bassoon-isn't that cool? I think he might like me, but he doesn't talk much, so I don't know for sure. And he …"

That night, the Zwigly family talked about a something that had never come up in their conversations before: relationships.

_And I'm underlined already in envy green,  
And pencil red.  
And I've forgotten what you've said,  
Will you stop working for the dead and return?_

Lili must have passed by the piano shop a thousand times on her way to and from school, but she had never gone inside before. She was a bit wary in there, to be honest-there were pianos everywhere, and she had never touched a piano before in her life. The girl approached the back of the store cautiously, searching for her brother's boyfriend. (Her brother's boyfriend. That still sounded so weird and unfamiliar.)

There was piano music piped in from somewhere. Not fancy, classical music, though, as one might expect to find in a piano shop like this-it was easier music, not very impressive really, the sort of music one might expect to hear at the piano recital of a group of first-graders.

Then, Lili realized that the music wasn't piped in-it was live. More specifically, it was coming from a small, white grand piano, where a certain unforgettable man was sitting, practicing ….

"Antonio!" the girl exclaimed as she drew closer to the pianist.

He stopped playing abruptly to examine her.

"Lili!" he greeted her with a huge grin. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to see the guy who owns this place," she replied with an answering grin. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Well, it's a long story," the Spaniard said. "See, I was playing on the streets here for a while, and then I was sort-of starving, but this really nice and cute, although angry, Italian guy named Lovino saved me, and …"

The two went on talking for some time, Antonio recalling his experiences in Philadelphia and Lili recounting how she and Vash had completely reinvented their relationship after she went home … Until they realized that there was a not-entirely-pleased Austrian glaring at them from behind.

"Who are you?" he inquired of Lili curtly.

"This is Lili," Antonio introduced her quickly. "She's my friend."

"Well, tell your _friend_ to stop distracting you while you're supposed to be pract-wait, did you say _Lili_?" Roderich asked suddenly.

"Yes," she said. "Are you Roderich?"

"I've … I've heard a lot about you," the Austrian told her.

"Likewise," Lili replied. She turned to look Roderich right in the eyes (even though he was at least a foot taller), drew herself up to her full height, and said, calmly but sternly, "I understand that you're dating my brother, and have been for a few weeks now. Well, I'd just like you to be aware that Vash cares a lot about you, and this is the first serious relationship he's had that I can remember, so you'd better be kind to him. Seriously. If you break his heart, I will cut off your sternum and gag you with it. Understood?"

_I thought he said she was a _sweet_ girl,_ Roderich thought, a little scared. "Understood," he repeated, nodding.

Lili smiled sweetly, as though she hadn't just issued any horrible threats. "Good. I'm sure we'll be great friends~!"

The Austrian and the Spaniard glanced at each other, simultaneously wondering what went on in the heads of women.

_A Mr. Curious well I need some inspiration,  
It's my birthday and I cannot find no cause for celebration.  
The scenario is grave but I'll be braver when you save me,  
From this situation laden with hearsay, oh._

"Antonio, I think you're ready," Roderich announced at a lesson a couple of weeks later.

"Ready for what?" the Spaniard asked. "Ooh, do you mean I'm ready to learn that piece you played for me at my first lesson?"

"No, of course not, you idiot," the teacher told him crudely. "It'll be years before you can play _that_. No, I mean that you're ready to write your own simple piece."

"Really?" Antonio exclaimed. This wasn't getting to play Pachelbel's Kanon, but it was almost as good.

Roderich nodded. "Yes. It should be simple enough that you can play it, not less than one minute long, and you should have it ready to play for me by next lesson."

"Can it have lyrics?" his student inquired eagerly.

The Austrian sighed. "I'd prefer it didn't-and the next one you do certainly won't-but if you really must … Oh, and I'd like you to channel some sort of emotion with your piece."

"You can channel emotions with wordless piano music?" Antonio asked.

"Of course you can!" Roderich said. "Pachelbel's Kanon, for example-that piece is calm and soothing. Mozart is often light and happy; Beethoven and Rachmaninoff can be angry and powerful; Grieg is heartbreakingly beautiful; Chopin, my favorite, starts off slow and then builds, telling a story … Every piece has an emotion, whether there are lyrics involved or not."

"Cool!" the Spaniard replied. "So, I guess the songs I write for my guitar are usually happy, so I'll do something like that."

His teacher shook his head. "No, I'd rather you sing about something that doesn't usually come up in your music. Something in a minor key, maybe. I can't tell you much, or it wouldn't be much of a challenge, would it?"

"A minor key," Antonio repeated.

He thought about that, drew a blank at first, and then thought some more.

_Mr. Curiosity,  
Hey Mr., please,  
Do come and find me._

"Lovino, if you had to write a song with an unhappy mood, what would you write about?"

The Italian glanced up from his pasta to look inquisitively at his roommate. "Why, do you have to do that for Roderich?"

"Yeah," Antonio replied, "and I'm having a hard time coming up with an idea."

"Well, I don't' think you'd sing about the same stuff I'd sing about," Lovino said. "We're completely different people."

"Still, it might be helpful," the Spaniard insisted. "Please, Lovi."

"I suppose … anger," Lovino said slowly. "Anger would be something I could sing about. But you don't get angry, really, so … sadness? Disappointment? Jealousy? Or … Loneliness," he finished quietly, barely audible. "I think both of us know loneliness."

Antonio considered that idea, then nodded slowly, and the two roommates returned to their food.

_I'm looking for love this time,  
Sounding hopeful but it's making me cry.  
(Trying not to ask why)  
Cause love is a mystery._

Antonio knew loneliness. It was an old friend of his, familiar the way a song that was your absolute favorite two years ago is familiar to you now, or the way a character you no longer find quite so attractive is familiar.

Antonio had been lonely for a good portion of his life, from going to high school in a Southern town where nobody wanted to be friends with the weird, Spanish geek to spending five years traveling aimlessly from city to city with nothing but his guitar for company. He remembered well what it felt like to believe that nobody on Earth cared for you, that you were completely alone in the world.

As a young boy, Antonio had been fascinated by the world. His grandfather (the primary architect of his young life) had nicknamed him Mr. Curiosity, because he asked questions about literally everything, from the typical "Why is the sky blue?" to the original "Why can't rocks talk?" to the hilarious "Why does Gil have boobs and not me?" to the painful "Why don't I have a Papa?" Mr. Curiosity had stayed with Antonio through middle school, but somewhere in high school he died, with the teasing and the taunting and the hardening of Antonio's heart. When the Spaniard returned to Philadelphia, years later, he was still carefree and enthusiastic, the way he had been as a child, but his curious nature was not so prominent.

He tried to be curious-really, he did-but there was only one thing he was truly curious about those days, and that topic was too painful to touch.

Antonio was lonely for his old nature. He wished he could be young again. Everything was _good_ then.

He was also lonely for love. He'd had no relationship more serious than a one-night stand, and those had always been while he was drunk. He watched Vash come and visit Roderich at the piano shop, Roderich blushing and stammering uncharacteristically and Vash wearing a small, fond smile. He watched how, when Roma did something stupid at the restaurant, Aldrich would yell at him, then kiss him quickly to let him know that they were okay. He watched and listened as Lili ranted about her new boyfriend, who she was trying to get to come out of his shell and talk to her more. He watched how Felicia and Louise would spend every free minute they had together, both grinning stupidly. He watched how Gillian would run and tackle Mattie to the ground with a bear hug whenever he showed up at the restaurant.

Love. That was what Antonio was curious about. That was what made him lonely. That was what he wanted.

But it was so hard to think about, partially because it brought up painful memories, and mostly because there were some questions he just couldn't ask.

He had asked, once: "Gil, what's it like, to be in love with someone who loves you back, and know it?"

She had looked at him sort-of strangely, said, "Don't you know that already?" and then changed the topic, telling him that she'd heard from Matt who'd heard from Amelia that Arthur was working at the Nordic Café now, and wasn't that so traitorous and backstabbing of him?

Antonio was confused-didn't he know? How could he know?-and no longer quite so curious, and still lonely.

For the first time in years, he let himself dwell on those feelings.

Writing the song was easy.

_Love is blinding when your timing's never right.  
Oh but who am I to beg for difference,  
Finding love in a distant instant,  
But I don't mind,  
At least I tried._

It was three-oh-five. Antonio and Lovino usually met outside of the piano shop to head over to _Il Stomaco Felice_ at three. Lovino was there, but Antonio was not.

"Stupid bastard, making me wait," the Italian muttered, checking his watch for the tenth time. He waited another five minutes, then sighed in exasperation and headed into the shop.

It was dimly lit inside, and a little creepy, with all of those pianos everywhere. Lovino didn't want to be in that place any longer than was completely necessary (and he didn't want to be late for work and have to face Aldrich's consequences, which were having to clean the bathrooms every day for the next week), so he simply followed the sound of piano music.

Antonio was sitting at his favorite little while piano, hunched over the keys the way a weeping willow tree hunches over a river. The music he played was so far from his normal cheerful, enthusiastic tunes that it stopped Lovino in his tracks and he stood quietly, listening.

As he listened, he could pick out lyrics in between the soft piano playing-lyrics that spoke of loneliness and a childhood lost forever.

In that one, unguarded moment, Antonio was so unhappy. His despair-like his joy-was contagious.

Lovino felt a tear slide down his cheek.

Antonio finally finished, left his head dropped for a second, and then abruptly turned around, sensing someone behind him.

"Ah, Lovino, how long have you been standing there?" he asked.

"Too … Too long," Lovino said-why was his voice hoarse? His voice shouldn't have been hoarse.

Antonio stood and said quietly, "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

And before his pride could warn him against it, Lovino was running to Antonio, throwing his arms around him, not letting go.

Both men were shaking.

_I tried, I tried._


	11. Geek in the Pink

**I regret to inform you that this chapter contains … MORE ANGST! Sorry, guys, but it's time for Antonio's backstory, and Antonio's backstory is not the happiest. You were all wondering how he became homeless, and what I was alluding to in the prologue, I know you were. So here you go. Answers about Antonio.**

**(Lovino also gets a backstory chapter, by the way. That's coming later.)**

**(Oh, and anyone who can figure out which future chapter—which Jason Mraz song, I mean—I allude to in this one gets a prize. By prize, I mean spoilers. Or, like, part of a future chapter or something. I don't know.)**

**Anyway, enjoy the angst. DO NOT CRY. THAT IS NOT ALLOWED.**

**The next chapter will be happier, I promise!**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES**

**11. Geek in the Pink**

_Well, let the geek in the pink take a stab at it,__  
__If you like the way I'm thinkin', baby, wink at it.__  
__I may be skinny at times but I'm fat fulla rhymes,__  
__Pass me the mic and I'm a grab at it._

Antonio and Lovino didn't speak of their encounter in Roderich's piano shop for the rest of that afternoon and evening, not even when Aldrich calmly and quietly (read: extremely angrily) inquired as to why they were so late. They simply went about their typical duties at _Il Stomaco Felice_, avoiding each other as much as possible. Even on the walk home (an occurrence that typically consisted of Antonio blabbing incessantly, with that stupidly huge grin on his face, and Lovino making sarcastic comments punctuated by the occasional exasperated sigh). They were silent and evasive, both men looking anywhere but the other man's face.

When they arrived at home, though, that was when all of the action began.

The second his hand pushed the apartment door closed behind him, Lovino burst forth with a question, something he had been wondering about—well, since he'd met Antonio, really, but in particular since he'd started thinking about the actual lyrics of Antonio's song, not just the feelings driving it.

"How did you land on the streets?"

Flickers of emotion flew across Antonio's face like nervous travelers unwilling to stay long: first surprise, then pain, then finally wistful acceptance.

"It's a long story," he said quietly.

Lovino scowled. "Do you think I would've asked you about it if I didn't want to hear the whole damn story? Idiot."

"Oh, right, of course," Antonio replied—and he was struck, suddenly, by a wave of affection for this strange man who cared so much, but would have died before he admitted it. "Well, I guess you should get comfortable, then."

The Italian sat down on the couch and crossed his arms, carefully not revealing how much he really wanted to hear this story.

The Spaniard plopped down next to him, a foot or so away—strange, he usually held less than zero regard for Lovino's personal space—and stared down at the hands he'd placed in his lap, wondering where to begin.

Lovino was about to curse at him for taking so goddamned long when Antonio started talking, the words flowing from him as though an on switch had just been flicked to a machine that had no off switch.

"When I was fourteen, at the tail end of middle school, my mother announced that she had just acquired a brilliant job in this town in North Carolina, working as a personal assistant for some big boss rich guy there who was a friend of a friend of her sister's old roommate, or something like that. So, all of us—all of us being _Mamá, Abuelo_, and me—had to move down there."

"Wait, what about your dad?" Lovino interrupted.

"He left to head back to our hometown in Spain when I was five," Antonio explained. "I was old enough to remember, but not old enough to understand why _Mamá_ suddenly turned so bitter, when she'd been the nicest lady in the world before."

"Oh." Lovino's parents hadn't left of their own accord, so he didn't know about that, but he did know about bitter mothers.

_Well, isn't it delicious, crazy way that I'm kissin',__  
__'Cause baby listen to this, don't wanna miss it while it's hittin'.__  
__Sometimes you gotta fit in to get in,__  
__But don't ever quit 'cause soon I'm gonna let you in, but see …_

Antonio shrugged, having accepted this grief a long time ago. "It's okay. _Abuelo_ more than made up for both of my parents, anyway. I hope he's alright, and his back isn't bothering him too much, and _Mamá _is being at least a little bit responsible … But that's not the story I said I'd tell you. So, we moved to that town. New job for _Mamá_, new school for me, new leaky faucets and broken windows and aching hearts for _Abuelo_ to fix (he was a handyman, you see), and new house for the three of us. I was disappointed that I'd had to leave all of my friends and my old city behind, but curious about the new town and confident that I would be just as happy there as I had been in Philly.

"That optimism was quickly disillusioned.

"The high school in that town was small, concrete, and painted a nauseating shade of olive green. To me, it felt like a prison, where dreams went to die. But I was innocent and had faith in happy endings, so I told myself that the poor design choices of this school's architect wouldn't reflect at all upon the people who taught and learned inside of it.

"But I was wrong. The teachers were nice enough, sure, but clueless about how to effectively teach, and were less capable than a fly of getting their students to behave. And the students were even more ignorant than the teachers. Most of them had never ventured outside of the state, much less the country. They had no idea what to make of me, with my pink shirt (a goodbye present from Gil because she hadn't wanted to keep it) and my strange, unfamiliar accent and my overly cheerful, let's-be-friends attitude and my odd (to them) tastes in food, music, subjects, and … basically everything. Most of the kids had been friends since the womb—they didn't want the weird, new kid to join in. So, to ensure that I felt completely isolated in their town, they dubbed me a geek and made fun of all of the parts of me that they didn't understand.

"To me, that didn't make any sense. I'd lived all of my life so far in a pretty multi-cultured area where I was quite far from the strangest kid in the grade. Why did they hate me so, I wondered. Why did think that my being different was bad? I had always thought that being different was cool. Why did they judge me based on my accent and the clothes I wore? _Abuelo_ had taught me that it's what's on the inside that counts. They were the ones who were wrong, but I was the one who got teased."

Lovino could imagine it pretty easily: a young Antonio, clueless about how cruel people could be, so confused about what was going on and so hurt by his crushed optimism.

It was not a happy thought, not in the slightest.

"I still tried to be friends with them, though," Antonio went on. "I was nice to everyone, helped my classmates with their homework when they were confused, and tried to lose the accent. It didn't work, though—nothing worked. They only thought that my attempts to join them were funny. My ever-present optimism was beginning to fail me because, apparently, I couldn't make friends.

"My mother didn't care. She was too busy searching for a new job—she lost that personal assistant gig two months after she started it by getting caught drinking on the job. Of course, for her, 'searching for a new job' meant 'going to bars in the nearby city and getting drunk and high, then getting laid,' so _Abuelo_ had to spend all of his time fixing things to make us money, and I had to help him, learn the trade, so that if something happened to him, we wouldn't be penniless … And I couldn't admit my situation at school to _Abuelo_, he'd be ashamed of me for my failure (although he couldn't be more ashamed of me than I was of myself.)

"Life was looking pretty desolate when I met Lars.

"One morning, beginning of the second quarter, my math teacher had us change seats, and I found myself seated next to this quiet guy with the most obnoxious, gravity-defying haircut I had ever seen in my entire life."

"How can hair defy gravity?" Lovino asked, incredulous.

"It was vertical hair," Antonio described, making an up-and-down motion with his hand for emphasis. "It was dark blond, and spiky, and literally _vertical_."

"Okay, I believe you," Lovino said. (He didn't, not really, but whatever.) "Go on about this Lars bastard."

"He was pretty strange," Antonio admitted, "and intimidating, as though if you got too close to him, he'd punch you in the face, just for looking. I'd never heard him speak in class before—but not because he was shy, because he chose not to. He was one of those people that you'd call nine-one-one immediately if you ever ran into him in a dark alleyway—he had this closed-up, grim-looking face like a villain in a kid's cartoon.

"At first, I just avoided speaking to him—he avoided my chummy, 'Hi~!' so I figured he wasn't one for casual conversation. But then, later that period, I heard the girls behind me making fun of the way I'd said 'number' when I asked the teacher a question. I turned around to ask them to please stop that, it wasn't nice, and simply got giggling in return.

"When I turned back around, there was writing in the margin of my notebook:

"_Want them to leave you alone? – L._

"_I … I guess so,'_ I wrote back. _How?_

"_Just ignore them. Pretend you don't care what they think of you, and they'll shut up. Works like a charm._

"I tried it—it wasn't easy to just ignore the titters behind my back, but I managed to concentrate on the algebra we were doing. It worked. They _did_ shut up.

"_Thanks_, I wrote.

"_No problem. Meet me at the basketball courts after school._

_The hype is nothing more than hoo-ha so I'm,__  
__Developing a language and I'm callin' it my own.__  
__So take a peek into the speaker and you'll see what I mean,__  
__That on the other side the grass is greener.  
__I don't care what you might think about me,  
__You can get by without me if you want._

"That sounds like something a mass murderer would say," Lovino commented, not wanting to admit how intrigued he was by this turn of events. "Meet me after school—ooh, scary."

"He wasn't scary once I got to know him!" Antonio defended Lars. "Really, he wasn't!"

"Then, please, do tell how you got to know him," Lovino replied.

"Well, I met him at the basketball courts, just as he'd requested, curious about what he wanted. He told me that he got where I was coming from, with the teasing thing—his family had come to the town from New York City the previous year. They were Dutch, and, just like my Spanish family, were strange in the eyes of the people in that town. Lars' sister, Femke, had adjusted well to the new environment—she had become popular pretty quickly, because even though she was odd, she was pretty, her family was rich, and she had a 'bubbly personality'—can't be popular without a 'bubbly personality,' Lars explained—but for Lars, it hadn't been so easy.

"'I'm weird, and I know it,' he said simply, as though admitting something so truthful, it was a fundamental part of the universe. 'All of them—Femke included—think that's something bad. I beg to differ. I say weird is good. I embrace the weird, bring it into my soul and make it my pet and name it Bob. And that's what _you_ have to do, too, Antonio, if you want to enjoy your life here at all,' he instructed me.

"I was relieved to discover that not everybody in this town was backwards—at least, once person agreed with me that weird is good. Lars helped me to stop being harassed by teaching me to not care what others thought of me. 'If you don't care about them,' he explained, 'they won't care about you.' Not caring was surprisingly easy—it was as though this huge burden had just been lifted from my back, leaving me free to do whatever I wanted with my life. 'I don't care,' I'd tell myself as I walked a lone down hallways. 'I don't care,' as I was picked last during gym class. 'I don't care,' as a girl told the teacher that she couldn't possibly work with me on a project. And Lars and I would sit together at lunch and laugh at the popular kids, with their fake smiles and their ugly clothes and the awesome futures they wouldn't have—that we would."

Lovino suppressed a grin at hearing this, glad to know that at least Antonio hadn't been completely alone for all of high school.

"Lars was still intimidating, and he still didn't talk too much, and he often cut class to smoke—tobacco or weed or something else entirely, I'm still not sure—but he was my friend, and we didn't care about anyone else together. We were geeks together. Life was okay, because I had a friend, one who agreed with me about the important stuff.

"Everything was great until the beginning of junior year."

_I could be the one to take you home,__  
__Baby we could rock the night alone.__  
__If we never get down, it wouldn't be a let down,__  
__But sugar don't forget what you already know,__  
__I could be the one to turn you on,__  
__We could be the talk across the town._

"What happened then?" Lovino inquired. He didn't want to admit it, but he was getting more and more interested in Antonio's story.

Antonio sighed, remembering, then took a deep breath and continued. "Femke happened."

"What?"

"Or, well, more accurately, Femke happened to me. I noticed her. She'd been one of the most popular girls in our grade for some time, and she was Lars' sister, so I'd always known about her … But, one afternoon I was over at Lars' place and she took pity on me and offered to be my lab partner in physics (we were in the same class, and nobody else had wanted the burden.) Of course, I didn't care what she thought of me—of course, I knew it was just pity—but I accepted, and then, in the middle of complex equations about springs and weights, I started to fall in love with her. She was popular, sure, she was also so _nice_, and there was something of Lars in the way she didn't really mind that I was a geek, and she was so pretty, with her light brown, curly, shoulder-length hair and her pixie-like face and her huge, doe eyes and the sort of curves most sixteen-year-old girls only dream about.

"I wasn't obvious about how I felt, of course—"

Lovino scoffed. "You couldn't not be obvious about your feelings if you hid them behind an invisibility cloak and put them in a closet in some haunted house that only got visited once in a thousand years, you idiot," he said, laughing.

"—but somehow, Lars managed to find out," Antonio continued, ignoring his roommate, "and he was … Well, 'angry' isn't a word strong enough to describe it. 'Infuriated,' I think, comes closer, although that still isn't exactly right. But yeah, he was about ready to decapitate me with a blunt ax. He yelled at me—the first time I'd ever heard him yell—for half an hour about _duty_ and _honor_ and _staying true to the moral code we were trying to live by_ and _IT'S MY FUCKING LITTLE SISTER FOR FUCK'S SAKE, COULDN'T YOU HAVE CHOSEN A DIFFERENT POPULAR IDIOT?_ I tried to explain to him that it wasn't as though I was about to endlessly devote myself to her or anything—I loved her, but in a I-think-dating-you-would-be-fun-and-maybe-we-could-also-make-out kind-of way, not a you-are-my-one-and-only kind of way. And besides, just because I liked one popular girl didn't mean I was about to change my entire philosophy.

"Lars thought about things rationally, or maybe he was just high, or maybe both, I don't remember, because he calmed down and told me that okay, fine, I could admire his sister, but from a distance, and I really should keep it to myself if I wanted to uphold my reputation as a guy who didn't care."

"Sounds like a good plan," Lovino remarked.

"It worked okay," Antonio agreed. "I admired her from a distance, and had the occasional perverted ream about her, but other than that, everything went back to normal.

"And then, one day, about halfway through senior year, Lars turned to me and said, 'Hey, Tonio, I think you should try to go after my sister.'"

_Well this relationship fodder don't mean to bother nobody,__  
__But Cupid's automatic musta fired multiple shots at her,__  
__Because she fall in love too often that's what the matter.__  
__At least I talk about it keep my pattern of flattery and,__  
__She was starin' through the doorframe,__  
__Eyeing me down like already a bad boyfriend._

"Woah, plot twist," Lovino exclaimed.

"Yeah, it was completely unexpected," the storyteller said. "He said that since we were going to graduate soon, anyway, and probably all go off to college somewhere and not see each other again, I might as well see if I could snag Femke first. At least, if I succeeded, he liked me more than he'd liked her many other boyfriends.

"See, Femke was a breaker of hearts. You wouldn't guess it, judging from her sweet nature, but she went through guys faster than a powerful lawnmower, one of those really cool ones that you sit on, goes through grass. She was just never satisfied with any one boy for too long—they were all jerks, or at least that's what Lars claimed she told his mom. The reason guys kept chasing her was because each one thought that he would be the one to win and keep her.

"And, well, I was no different. I was determined to make Femke love me. I did have an advantage, though: Lars. He knew all of Femke's favorite things, and he could easily slip cards, flowers, and chocolate from 'a secret admirer' onto the doorstep of his own house. So, he and I came up with a master plan. I had Lars leave her little presents every day for two weeks leading up to her birthday, each one accompanied by a piece of poetry about how wonderful she was, how much I cared for her, and so on.

"The great finale was at her birthday party. Well, it was supposed to be her and Lars' party, but considering Femke invited thirty people and Lars only invited me … Yeah. Anyway, at the party, I got out my guitar after everyone had sung 'Happy Birthday,' and announced that I had a song for the birthday girl."

_Hey baby look at me go,__  
__From zero to hero.__  
__You better take it from a geek like me,__  
__I can save you from unoriginal dum-dums,__  
__Who wouldn't care if you com...plete him or not._

"Don't tell me you serenaded her," Lovino said.

Antonio nodded solemnly. "I serenaded her.

The Italian groaned and face-palmed in exasperation.

"It wasn't a really lovey-dovey serenade, though," the Spaniard argued. "Lars helped me write it, so it was all, I like you, but I don't really care about what you think of me, so if you reject me, it's okay. It had a cool melody, though, and I was pretty proud of it. Most of the kids at the party seemed to like it, although it might have just been because they were pretty drunk."

"She rejected you, didn't she?" Lovino guessed.

The storyteller nodded again, this time sadly. "She rejected me. I think her exact words were, 'You're cute, sweetie, but dating you would do such horrible things to my reputation. Sorry.'"

Lovino gave a low, sympathetic whistle. "Sucks. And, let me guess: you then drank yourself into oblivion, wallowing in the deepest pits of rejection and despair?"

"Something like that, yeah," Antonio said with a sigh. "I think I drank enough cheap beer to put a German at Oktoberfest to shame. Somewhere around my fifth one, though, I stopped feeling sad and started to get angry. Really angry. I'd worked so hard for Femke, but she didn't want to go out with me because … Why? I wasn't popular. I wasn't popular because I was different and because I had chosen not to care what people thought of me, because I was a geek who'd worn a pink shirt on his first day of school. Why should that have to affect my love life? I'd never even kissed anyone—well, except Gil, once, but we were three and both of us thought it was gross, so—and now this stupid society was putting up these barriers for no good reason!

"I wanted to show them. I wanted to do something to shock them, make them impressed with me, show them I really didn't care what Femke or any of them thought of me.

"And that was when Lars sat down next to me on the couch."

Lovino gasped as he figured it out; his secret love of soap operas was showing. "You _didn't_—you _did_! But you _couldn't have_—oh, but you _must have_! You _bastard_." He shook his head in disbelief. "You fucking bastard! Woo a girl, then fuck her brother. I think that showed her how much you cared, alright."

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," Antonio whispered, his face turning a color that was usually only worn by Lovino. "We'd be getting back at everyone, and I would be getting some actual experience in the sexual field, which can never hurt, and besides, Lars actually was sort-of attractive, in his odd way, and—"

"You were really drunk," Lovino summarized simply.

The Spaniard sighed in acceptance. "I was really drunk. I don't even remember much of it—just flashes of tongues and limbs and him pressing into me and the feeling of the wood floor below me and people's shocked faces when they saw what we were doing."

Lovino found himself imagining it, Antonio and Lars having dirty, angry, drunk sex on the floor, and for some reason, the image pissed him off. He didn't get why—it wasn't like he was jealous of Lars, or anything. That was stupid. And untrue.

"What I do remember, though," Antonio continued, more quietly, looking down at his lap, "is how Femke screamed when she found us, as though we were something abnormal, inhuman, out of her worst nightmares, and told us to get out. And I remember how quickly word spread—it always spreads like wildfire in a small town like that one—and soon, everyone knew what Lars and I had done.

"He and I saw what we'd done as an act of rebellion, and even though we had been drunk, it had been—well, arousing, but everyone else thought it was disgusting, or horrifying, or, at the very least, shameful.

"And my mother, a Catholic who partied on Fridays, slept off her hangover on Saturdays, and went to church on Sundays, told me that I was a sinner and a monster and a disgrace and an abomination, and she was disappointed in me, but also disappointed in herself, because she must have failed in her duties as a mother."

"Ouch." Lovino winced.

Antonio shrugged. "She only helped me to make my choice."

"And what was that?"

"To run away. Lars was prepared to face everyone, be called a faggot and beaten on for his sexuality. He'd always been stronger than I had. But me … I wasn't. I couldn't stand there and pretend I didn't care what they thought of me when I had cared, somewhere deep down, the whole time.

"So I left my mother a note—maybe she hated me, but she was still my mother—explaining why, left Lars a note apologizing for my cowardice, grabbed my guitar and left. The Geek in the Pink was dead, and the Curbside Prophet was born.

"And that's how I landed on the streets."

Lovino didn't speak for a minute—what could you say to a story like that?

"You know, I think this is the first time I've told anyone that whole story," Antonio said quietly.

Lovino moved over, sat directly next to his roommate—his friend—and tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

Antonio, who was starting to know Lovino better than he knew himself, knew that this meant, _I'm honored that you chose to tell it to me_, so he said, "Thank you."

_Don't judge it by the color, confuse it for another,__  
__You might regret what you let slip away__,  
__Like the geek in the pink._


	12. The Remedy

**It's not exactly Friday anymore (it's 1am on Saturday, go me) but considering I only got home from a cast party half an hour ago, I think this is still acceptable. xD**

**Here we go. The first of the two (TWO!) chapters I'm posting tonight. Exciting stuff. I don't really know what else to say here-I'm kind-of tired. Stressful life is stressful. My life may or may not be slightly a lie. Um. Yeah. Anyway. Enjoy the chapter. There's lots of Bad Touch Trio-y goodness.**

**(P.S. I HAVE 111 REVIEWS ON THIS STORY RIGHT NOW. YES PERFECT. I LOVE ALL OF YOU.)**

**(P.S.S. To that one anonymous reviewer who proposed marriage: I WOULD LOVE TO, BUT YOU NEED TO GO OFF ANON FIRST. PROVIDE EMAIL OR SKYPE OR SOMETHING AND WE CAN TALK. ALSO I MAY BE ENGAGED TO EPIC F. AWESOMESAUCE. I'M NOT SURE.)**

**(P.S.S.S. That reminds me: I have a Skype now. It's Owlinaminor, and you are totally welcome to add me. Just put something in the friend request message so that I know it's a nice reviewer-type-person and not a weird stalker-type-person. :D)**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES  
****12. The Remedy**

_The remedy is the experience, it is a dangerous liaison.  
I say the comedy is that it's serious, which is a strange enough new play on words.  
I say the tragedy is how you're gonna spend the rest of your nights with the light on.  
So shine the light on all of your friends, because it all amounts to nothing in the end._

One of the things about having crazy friends is that you need to be prepared to be kidnapped at any moment and whisked into some sort of mad (and possibly illegal) scheme involving wieners, trash cans, and possibly the Queen of England. Crazy friends are wonderful and brilliant and hilarious and the best kind of people on Earth, but they can force you to sky-dive out of your comfort zone with an inadequate parachute, often without warning, so it's important to be prepared with a good excuse to bow out when they demand that you _absolutely must_ go to this concert or bar or game or trek through the wilds of South America or what-have-you.

Or, of course, you could be Antonio Fernandez Carreido, and take everything in stride without so much as a backward glance, because you are a complete and utter imbecile who would willingly go to a Justin Bieber concert nude if it meant making his friends happy.

(At least, that was how Lovino so eloquently put it.)

"Lovi, it's not like we're going on a trip to the moon," Antonio protested to his roommate one evening in mid-December. "Francis and Gil just invited me over to their apartment for the night, is all."

"How do _you_ know that's all you're going to do?" Lovino demanded, crossing his arms and glaring at the stupid Spaniard.

"Because … Um … Er … Because that's what Gil said!" Antonio decided triumphantly.

The Italian rolled his eyes—he should have been used to this degree of obliviousness by now, he really should have, but his brain-damaged friend never ceased to amaze him. "And you trust her … Why, exactly?"

"Because I am the most awesome person in the universe!" the Prussian girl in question exclaimed, the "duh" implied in her voice as she came up from behind Lovino. (He definitely did _not_ let out a startled yelp.)

"And why don't you trust us, dear Lovi?" Francis asked, joining her (_holy fuck, they come in packs, like wild animals coming in for the kill or some shit, _Lovino thought.)

"Because you're bastards!" he told them, pointing an accusatory finger. "You'd probably take Antonio to some demon strip club, or some shit, and force him to pay for everyone's lap dances, and … And not let him eat any tomatoes the entire time! Fucking hell!"

"No tomatoes?" Antonio repeated, his eyes widening with shock at the terrible thought.

"Yes!" Lovino confirmed. "No tomatoes! And worse, they'd make you eat German food. And drink beer! _Beer_, Antonio. Do you really want to go with them?"

"Look, I promise we won't do any of that," Gil said sincerely (or, as sincerely as she ever said anything, which would not win any awards in the sincerity department.) "We just wanted to have a sleepover. Like old times—like back in middle school."

"Why are you so protective of Antonio, anyway?" Francis butted in, dangerously curious. "I thought you didn't even like him that much."

And, well, what was Lovino supposed to say to that? That he worried about Antonio—always had, really, ever since he'd met the imbecile, and especially now, after hearing his long and painful life's story? That he didn't want Antonio to get hurt any more than he already had been? That he missed Antonio when he was gone—even if it was just for one night? That he was starting to forget what life had been like before that stupid Spaniard had waltzed right into it?

No. Lovino couldn't say anything. He couldn't admit anything. He couldn't think about how much he wished Antonio would—

He just couldn't.

"Never mind," Lovino said quietly, looking at the floor as though it was the most fascinating thing in the world. "Go if you want, Antonio, I don't care."

"Great!" The Spaniard beamed, too excited about the sleepover to notice his roommate's morose attitude. "I'll walk over there with you after tonight's shift is over."

…

The Bad Touch Trio burst into Gil's and Francis' apartment singing Gay or European? as though they were the stars of a game show called _Worst Fake Foreign Accents Ever._ They finished triumphantly, with the slam of the front door and Gillian brandishing a floor lamp above Antonio's head as he proclaimed his gayness to the world in a terrible falsetto. Anyone looking in on the three friends probably would have found them strange beyond compare and more than a little bit insane, but to them, it was just a normal day, really.

And as for the neighbors … Well, they'd grown used to it. Or moved out. Mostly moved out.

"So, what do you guys want to do?" Gillian asked, after giving the guys proud high fives in honor of their brilliant (in her extremely misguided opinion) singing.

Antonio shrugged. "I don't know, whatever you want to do."

"_Antoine_!" Francis gasped theatrically. "You can't just _let us pick_! You're our _guest_, and must be treated with honor and respect, and therefore we cannot tell you what to do! _Mon dieu_, is chivalry completely dead?"

"But it's your apartment!" the Spaniard protested. "And besides, there's nothing in particular I want to do. I'll honestly be fine with anything."

"But …" Suddenly, the Frenchman's eyes lit up as he realized the full potential of his friend's last statement. "_Anything_? Really?" He sidled up closer to Antonio, placing a hand on his ass and grinning that slow, seductive grin that always had girls falling at his feet in seconds.

"Francis!" Gil scolded him sternly, throwing him a pointed look.

The Spaniard-molester in question looked back at her, pleading, but she only continued glaring, harsh and unforgiving, until he withdrew his hand and stepped away.

"Good," she said cheerfully, once he'd fully complied with her request. "Now, how about we bake cookies? Or brownies? I think I've got some brownie mix stashed away here somewhere …"

Antonio was thoroughly confused—what had Francis been hinting at? And why had it made Gillian so angry? Was there something going on that he didn't know about?

He soon forgot, however, because they were _making brownies_, and sure, maybe they weren't quite the right texture and spent a bit too much time in the oven, but they were _brownies_, and they were _delicious_, and anyone who says baking isn't manly could go stuff his head in a drainpipe.

_I saw fireworks from the freeway, and behind closed eyes I cannot make them go away,  
Cause you were born on the Fourth of July, freedom ring__,__  
Now, something on the surface it stings._

Antonio was poking his head into Gillian's room, curious to see how messy it was (in the old days, if you could see the floor, it was a good day) when he noticed something he hadn't seen in years.

"GIL!"

"Yeah, Tonio? What is it?" the Prussian asked, ambling in from the living room.

"Your old drum set!" he exclaimed, practically bouncing up and down as he pointed aggressively at it. "You kept it!"

She rolled her eyes. "Of course I kept it. It's one of my most valuable possessions. God, Tonio, you've got to be careful, or people will start thinking you're really an idiot."

The Spaniard didn't take offense to this—he was preoccupied with the drum set in the corner of Gil's room: a small, old drum set, but a drum set well taken care of, and a drum set still in surprisingly good quality, considering it had to be ten years old. Antonio remembered how, back in fourth grade, the band and orchestra teachers had shown all of the kids in the elementary school how each of the different instruments sounded, in the hopes of recruiting as many kids as possible to the music department—how Gillian had seen two seconds of the demonstration and decided that she wanted to be a drummer, because she wanted to bang on things—how she'd started taking lessons and learned that she loved being a drummer, because drumming was different from all of the other instruments, and it was special and important and awesome, and she was the only girl, and she was really quite good at it—how she had begged Aldrich for her own drum set at least once a week for three years—how he had finally caved and given it to her—how her face had looked that Christmas morning when she opened that huge box and started taking out drums the size of her head—how she had rounded up Antonio with his guitar and Francis with his bass and his saxophone and told them that they were going to be famous rock stars—how they had made rock star T-shirts and rock star drumheads and practiced every few days in Gil's room, and there was nothing their parents could do about it—how they had had these big dreams, dreams that were still everything to Antonio now, ten years later.

He turned to look at his two best friends (Francis had come in as well, curious as to what the commotion was about) and was struck by how much he had really missed them, those five years on his own. He had missed their silliness and their liveliness and their awesomeness and their dreams.

Antonio took a couple of swift steps forward and engulfed Francis and Gil in a hug of truly epic proportions.

They didn't make fun of him, for once—they had seen the look on his face, and they knew what it was for. They understood.

That was why they were his best friends.

_I won't worry my life away.  
I won't worry my life away.  
_

Half an hour later, Francis had out his bass, Antonio had out his guitar, and the Bad Touch Trio was back in business.

Back in middle school, the three friends had practiced a wide array of songs—everything from the Beatles to Iron Maiden—because Gillian had gone through musical phases more quickly than a five-year-old goes through favorite colors, and wanted to play each new genre as she became obsessed with it. Attempts were made to convince the Bad Touch Trio to exclusively play a sexy, Latin-style pop-ish type of music, because that was the type of music they were actually good at (and the type Antonio was best at writing) but to no avail. The Bad Touch Trio were their own band, they did what they wanted, and, someday, they were going to be big rock stars, just like in the Nickleback song.

Of course, that hadn't happened—Antonio had left, been forced to move across state lines and away from his best friends, and they had fallen apart without their lead singer and songwriter.

But now, playing in the middle of Francis' and Gillian's apartment, playing through a song Antonio had written during their pop phase in eighth grade ("Do you still remember how it goes?" "Of course. How could I forget? It was one of your best songs!"), they could almost imagine that they were in middle school again, full of confidence and dreams.

They weren't all that great, sure—the song had once been pretty awesome, for eighth graders, but they didn't quite remember all of the words—but they felt that they _could be_, and that was what counted.

Once the song was over, the three friends collapsed onto Gillian's bed, laughing with that feeling of being able to do anything—the little-kid feeling of being invincible.

"Tonio, you've still got a decent voice on you," Gil said, grinning.

"And your lyrics are better written these days," Francis added.

"Well, that's because I don't have to write metal any more," Antonio retorted, shooting a pointed glance at Gil.

"Hey, I still say that Death to All Tomato-Haters Because they Worship the Devil and Hate Tomatoes, Which Are the Best Food Ever was your best song," the Prussian girl argued.

The other two-thirds of the Bad Touch Trio rolled their eyes at her, and then companionable silence fell, encompassing them like a warm blanket.

After a while, Gillian asked, "Hey, do you think there's room on Tonio's stage for a couple more mics, a drumset, and two more people?"

_I heard two men talking on the radio, in a cross fire kind of new reality show,  
Uncovering the ways to plan the next big attack__,__  
They were counting down the days to stab the brother in the be right back after this.  
_

No sleepover would be complete without a good, rousing game of Truth or Dare, played in the dark, where everyone is braver and it's okay to ask the hard questions.

"Guys, guys, guys guys guys guys GUYS."

"Yeah, Gil? What is it?"

"I JUST REMEMBERED SOMETHING THAT WE NEED TO DO. LIKE, FOOD AND WATER AND OXYGEN AND INTERNET KIND OF NEED."

"Um … okay?"

"TONIO."

"… _Sí_?"

"TRUTH OR DARE?"

"Oh, good one, Gil. I should've thought of that."

"But you didn't, 'cause you're not as awesome as the awesome me. Now, come on, Antonio, answer the time-honored question, the question above all questions, the ultimate question, the question that never goes unpunished, the question that—"

"Um … dare."

"Caress someone's ankle. Lovingly. With feeling."

"What?"

"Caress an ankle. Really, Tonio, it's not that hard."

"Um, okay …"

"Ah! That feels … Kind-of nice, actually … Hmm …"

"Great. Now it's your turn."

"Right. Francis, truth or dare?"

"Because I am not a wimp, dare."

"Uh … um … Drink water from the toilet!"

"Oh, ew, we're not in middle school any more, you know."

"But it's still a cool dare!"

"Oh … Alright, fine."

"…"

"My mouth will never be the same again."

"Good dare, Tonio."

"Thanks."

"Gil. Truth or dare?"

"Dare, obviously."

"Okay, I dare you to take off all of your clothes, then open a window and scream as loud as you can."

"Alright, let's do this."

"…"

"_AAAHHHHHHH!"_

"Are you sure this was a good idea? What if police come or something?"

"They won't."

"Hey, do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"That … that _noise_ …"

"Someone's screaming back! Woah."

"You guys have a weird neighborhood."

"And proud of it. Truth or dare, Frenchy-pants?"

_When I fall in love, I take my time.  
There's no need to hurry when I'm making up my mind.  
_

**An unfortunate amount of panty-switching, impromptu pole-dancing, soy sauce-tasting, ear-licking, and horrible porn fanfiction-reading later …**

"Antonio. Truth or dare?"

"… This time, truth."

"Wimp. Well, then again, at least this gives me an opportunity to use the most classic truth ever, probably the whole reason there even is a truth category: Antonio Fernandez Carreido, _who do you like_?"

"Well, I like you, and Francis, and everyone at _Il Stomaco Felice_, and—"

"No, idiot, I meant, who do you _like_?"

"I don't get it."

"She means, is there a person into whom you would like to stick your manly stick of man-meat?"

"_Oh_. That kind of like."

"Yes, Tonio. You figured it out. Good for you. Would you like a sticker?"

"_Sí,_ _por favor_~!"

"… That was sarcasm … Just answer the question."

"Oh, well, um … There isn't really anyone ... I mean, I don't really like any one person in particular that way …"

"You sound a little unsure, Tonio."

"_Oui_, the lady is right. What are you hiding from us?"

"Nothing! There isn't anyone!"

"What, not even a certain angry little Italian?"

"… _Que?_"

"It's obvious, my dear _Antoine_. I don't know what you see in him, personally, besides perhaps his lovely little bum, but it's clear that you're smitten."

"Yeah … The way you look at him, like he's everything you want in the world, and the way you spend all of your free time bugging him, and the way you smile at him brighter than at anyone else … You're in love with him, dude."

"What?! I-I'm not … I don't see why …"

"Really? Not even you could be that clueless, surely."

"But I don't …"

"But you _do_."

"And he likes you back, if that helps."

"He … he _does_?"

"Oh, yeah. I don't think he's blushed and stuttered that much around someone since he was in love with Sadiq back in high school."

"And there's the way he's so over-protective of you, like a mother hen or something."

"And he actually smiles at you—he yells at you and scowls at you most of the time, sure, but he does actually smile at you, that's more than he does for anyone else."

"And he practically drools when you perform."

"Drools, Tonio. It would be gross if it wasn't so cute."

"Guys, look, I … Can we not talk about this? Please?"

"Why? It's fun to speculate about it, and … Wait, are you serious?"

"Well, it's just that … I don't know if I can like someone … I'd have to think about it more first, I guess, because I've never really had a proper relationship before, and I don't want to move too quickly or anything … And I don't know about what you guys said about Lovi liking me …"

"Wait, you've never had a proper relationship before? How?"

"A … A bad experience … In high school …"

"Does this have anything to do with why we completely lost contact with you for five years?"

"Um … maybe?"

"You don't have to say anything, Tonio, but, if you want to tell us …"

"We're all ears."

"Yeah."

"Not literally all ears, though, that would be very unattractive."

"Francis, shut up."

"Sorry."

Antonio had two crazy friends. Together, they had been the terror of their elementary and middle schools, and had pulled some of the most impressive (and hilarious) pranks Philadelphia had ever seen. Now, as adults, their escapades leaned more into the sex, drugs, and rock and roll variety, but they were still far from timid. Gil and Francis were not good examples for young children, or older children, or anyone at all, but they were Antonio's best friends. They genuinely loved him, and not just for his ass (only partially for his ass.)

If anyone deserved to know what had happened to Antonio in the years between middle school and _Il Stomaco Felice_, they did.

So, he told them, taking a deep breath and starting from the very beginning. It was easier than telling Lovino had been—partially because he had already told this story, and partially because he didn't have to be afraid that Gil and Francis would judge him for what had happened, because obviously they wouldn't.

And when he finished, he found himself engulfed in a three-way hug that was comforting and nice and unusually serious for the Bad Touch Trio and really awkward after about thirty seconds.

The three friends didn't say anything—they simply fell back onto the couch, arranged each other into appropriate shapes for pillows, and then fell asleep the way you fall in love—slowly and then all at once.

_The unavoidable kiss, where the minty fresh death breath is sure to outlast his catastrophe,  
Dance with me, because if you've got the poison, I've got the remedy__._

"So, bastard, how was your stupid middle-school reenactment?"

"What?"

"The sleepover."

"Oh, it was lots of fun~! I wish you'd been there, though, Lovi. I missed you."

And as the Italian man turned the color of his favorite tomatoes and stuttered out something about how he wouldn't have wanted to be there and he had actually enjoyed his night with the apartment to himself quite a lot, thank you very much, Antonio wondered.

_That something on the surface, it kind of makes me nervous, who says that you deserve this,  
And what kind of god would serve this? We will cure this dirty old disease,  
If you've got the poison I've got the remedy._

The Bad Touch Trio stood on stage, playing a gig together at last.

Gil was in her element, grinning and winking from her place on the seat of her drum set like a celebrity on the red carpet. Francis played as though he was flirting, moving his hips and tossing his hair.

And Antonio just closed his eyes and sang, concentrating on the words and the meaning and everything that was living, uncontained, bursting free in this moment.

And as Lovino caught glimpses of the Spaniard in between waiting on tables, he wondered.

_You can turn off the sun, but I'm still gonna shine._


	13. Living in the Moment

**All I'm going to say here is that this is a good chapter. ;)**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES  
13. Living in the Moment**

_I will not waste my days,__  
__Making up all kinds of ways,__  
__To worry about all the things,__  
__That will not happen to me._

"Hey, Lovino, what's your New Year's resolution?"

Antonio paused in bounding along the sidewalk to work on New Year's Eve to glance inquisitively at Loviino.

The Italian took an ear-bud out of his ear, letting music still blast through the other one, and examined his roommate, wondering whether the man was serious. "_New Year's resolution?_ You still do that shit?"

"What's wrong with it?" the Spaniard asked defensively. "I've always made New Year's resolutions. I think they're nice—you get to set a goal for yourself and try to achieve it all throughout the next year. It makes New Year's seem like a new beginning, you know? Like anything can happen."

"You _would _believe that, bastard," Lovino said harshly—but the careful listener could detect a hint of fondness in his voice.

Lovino remembered when he'd been that idealistic—when he'd believed that New Year's was a time of new hopes and second chances, before he'd become bitter and sad and full of resentment for the world. The last time Lovino had made a New Year's resolution was in high school, when he resolved to make Sadiq notice him—and, well, look how that turned out.

He celebrated New Year's, sure; he went to his friends' parties and he counted down the seconds with a glass of champagne in his hand. He enjoyed the excuse to get drunk. But he did not make resolutions.

"That's because it's true," Antonio was saying, "isn't it?"

Lovino shrugged. "I don't really think so."

"_What_?!" The Spaniard gasped, shocked at a sudden realization. "You mean you don't make New Year's resolutions?!"

"No, I don't," Lovino replied with a glare. "Got a problem with that?"

"Lovi, you shouldn't be that pessimistic," Antonio told him, simultaneously sympathetic and scolding as he attempted to explain something that was actually kind-of a fundamental belief of his existence. "Resolutions are great. I resolved every year for the past few years to make it through the rest of the year, and it worked, and then I met you, so something was going right there, right? And it may be true that a lot of people don't actually follow their resolutions—like, someone could say that he'll run every day, but by February, he's running once every two weeks—but that isn't the point. The point is that you try, at least a little bit, to achieve your goal. Maybe you won't run every day, but you'll still run more than you did the last year. And you're trying to help yourself, instead of waiting for someone to do it for you. The whole idea of a New Year is that it's _new_—it's a chance to forget about all of the crap that you did the previous year and try again, start over. It's a chance to let yourself off of the hook and start again. How can you not want that?"

Somewhere in the middle of his rant, Antonio had grabbed Lovino's arm and held him, suspended in the middle of the sidewalk, their faces scant inches apart.

Lovino saw Antonio's eyes flashing with passion for his cause, his breath rising and falling heavily in his chest, his cheeks flushed with the cold—and oh, if Lovino made a resolution right then, it would be to kiss that stupid Spaniard, and it would never come to fruition, so what was the point?

But by some inhuman act of will, the Italian managed to break apart from the overenthusiastic idiot and say in a mostly-stable voice, "I'm still not convinced."

"Well, maybe you will be after you hear my resolution," Antonio said cheerfully, apparently not fazed at all by the close confrontation.

"What's your resolution?" Lovino hated to admit it, but he was a bit curious.

The Spaniard grinned, his smile hiding badly-kept secrets. "I can't tell you just yet~!"

"Is it something really stupid, like, 'I want to save all of the turtles in the world?' Is that why you can't tell me?"

"No, it's a good resolution," Antonio replied indignantly. "And it's something you might like, too, I think."

"So why can't you tell me?" Lovino inquired.

"Because I wrote a song based on it, and I'm gonna premier it tonight~!"

"Oh. Tricky bastard."

_So I just let go of what I know I don't know.__  
__And I know I'll only do this by,__  
__Living in the moment.__  
_

The Curbside Prophet stood up at the front of a crowd of enthusiastic, mostly-drunk bar-goers, his guitar in his hand and his heart in his face.

It was one hour to midnight, and the restaurant was more crowded than he'd ever seen it, but that was okay. He wasn't nervous—hadn't been nervous all night. After all, this singing thing was what he was meant to do, and he loved it. He loved shouting into crowds and hearing cheers and laughter in return. He loved impressing people with his quick singing and his awesome dance moves. He loved calling out lyrics that he'd created late some night in his head and watching them come to life for those who heard him. He loved every moment of life that he spent up on a stage.

That love had inspired the song he was about to sing.

"So, who here made a New Year's resolution?" he asked, grinning.

Most of the people in the restaurant raised their hands, Antonio included.

"Who plans on keeping it?" he continued.

A few hands dropped.

"Who thinks he or she is really capable of keeping it?"

Most of the hands dropped, to assorted titters of amusement.

"Well, I think you guys should have more faith in yourselves," Antonio told his audience. "Someone once said that you can do anything you put your mind to, am I right? So if you've already decided, at the get-go, that you aren't going to be able to keep your resolution, whatever it is, then you've already put this huge road-block in front of yourself, preventing you from actually achieving your resolution.

"I'm not saying you should really force yourself to do whatever it is you set yourself a goal to do, but I think that if you decided on something unrealistic, maybe you should change your resolution to something easier—something as simple as 'smile more,' or 'be nicer to my mom,' or 'don't forget to be awesome.' Something that seems simple in words, but is actually a huge life-changer, of a sort.

"If you don't have any ideas for a resolution like that, I can make a suggestion. My resolution is to live in the moment.

"See, recently, I've found myself dwelling a lot in the past, and worrying about the future," Antonio explained. "I spent so much time agonizing over bad choices I had made and stressing out about where my life was going that I forgot to enjoy my life as it is right now. Because I actually kind-of love this—being able to play the way I do."

A few people cheered for that.

The Curbside Prophet acknowledged them with a smile, then went on, "So, I realized that the best way to live your life is to cherish every moment on its own, as an individual, precious thing, unburdened by worries about the past or future. That's the way to be at peace with yourself, and be less stressed out. It sounds small, but it's actually kind-of a big thing. It's one little phrase that leads to a major change in how you live your life.

"And, being me, I wrote a song about it."

The crowd gave Antonio some appreciative applause, even though most of them had no idea what he'd just been going on about—most of them were drunk or preoccupied, which is not a bad excuse. But a few people had been listening, really listening, and were slowly nodding their heads in realization and resolving the same thing as Antonio.

Lovino watched from a corner of the room where he'd taken a few seconds of break time in between serving drinks and shook his head from side to side, rolling his eyes at that strange, childish man who really thought he could change people's attitudes with one well-worded speech late one night in a bar.

And then, something unexplainable occurred to Lovino: he was proud of Antonio. Antonio, with his optimistic nature and his simple brilliance and his courage to stand up in front of a group of people, most of whom he didn't know, and explain to them a plan of how they could better live their lives.

When had Lovino started to think of Antonio as someone he could be proud of? He was just his roommate, for God's sake. It wasn't like he was his …

His …

_With peace in my heart,__  
__Peace in my soul,__  
__Wherever I'm going, I'm already home.__  
__Living in the moment._

It was the threshold of midnight, that magical place where anything can happen.

_Ten_.

Champagne glittered in the glasses, bubbling with the excitement fizzing in the room.

_Nine_.

Louise whispered something to her fiancée, then smiled slightly as Felicia laughed loudly, openly, joyously—the laugh that had made Louise fall in love with her.

_Eight_.

Gillian found Mattie in the crowd and grinned at him. "You didn't think you'd get out of my first chance to make out with you on New Year's, did you?"

_Seven_.

Francis moved a little closer to a lovely girl he'd spotted earlier that night—smart but not too much common sense, a good sense of humor, and mostly drunk, just his type—and gave her a look that spoke of more than just kissing.

_Six_.

Roderich complained about how loud the people were in this silly restaurant—but Vash was holding his hand and gazing at him as though he was this beautiful, precious thing, so he didn't really mind all that much.

_Five_.

In a bar somewhere across the city, Arthur caught Amelia's eye, then shyly looked away, as though regretting his decision. She laughed and ran towards him.

_Four_.

Roma put an arm around Aldrich. Aldrich didn't shake it off. That was enough.

_Three._

Hands touched. Eyes met. Pulses raced.

_Two._

Hearts intertwined.

_One_.

How can you stand alone on a night like this?

_Zero_.

Cheering. Drinking of champagne. Drunken toasts to the things that really matter.

Kissing—everything from light pecks on the cheek to full-blown making out.

Antonio was in the thick of it all, of course, grinning with the excitement, but he had nobody to kiss.

Lovino sat in a corner with a bottle of wine in his hand, purposely not watching.

_How can you stand alone on a night like this?_

_I'm letting go of the thoughts,__  
__That do not make me strong.__  
__And I believe this way can be the same for everyone._

Gillian emerged from some dark closet somewhere, where she had been showing Matt precisely how wonderful it was to not be single on New Year's, and found Antonio talking to Felicia idly about something—probably something stupid, knowing the two of them.

"Oi, Tonio," she said, grabbing her friend's arm and dragging him off to the side, "I'm sure you'd love to gossip with Feli all night, but there are more important matters at hand."

"Really?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Like what?"

"Like the fact that you didn't kiss Lovino at midnight, _dummkopf_!" the Prussia exclaimed.

"I … was supposed to do that?"

"What, who else did you think you were supposed to kiss?"

"I was supposed to kiss someone?"

Gil threw up her hands in pure exasperation. She loved Antonio to pieces, but _honestly_. "_Midnight on New Year's Eve_. The entire purpose that time was creative was for spontaneous making out! Obviously! And you love Lovi, and he loves you, so why didn't you just go for it?"

"Do my ears detect our fair lady ranting at our favorite idiotic Spaniard?" Francis asked, inviting himself (and the bottle of champagne he was still holding, for some reason) into the conversation.

"_He_," Gillian accused, pointing at Antonio, "didn't kiss Lovino the way he was supposed to."

"I didn't know I was supposed to!" the Spaniard in question protested.

"It was _obvious_!"

"It was not obvious!"

"Did you tell him of this plan beforehand?" Francis inquired before a full-blown ego war could start.

"… No," the Prussian admitted reluctantly.

"Well, then," the Frenchman said decisively, "it wasn't obvious. Perhaps it was to you, but you are a girl, and therefore a different species. What is obvious to you is not obvious to Antonio. It was a good idea, certainly, but not obvious by any means."

"But you agree with me he should've done it?" Gil asked, not willing to be defeated entirely.

Francis did agree. "But of course! He loves Lovino, Lovino loves him, and midnight is a good time for impulsive first kisses—sexual tension is high, everyone is a little drunk, and so on."

"Wait, I don't understand why you guys keep insisting Lovi and I are in love," Antonio butted in.

"How are you and Lovino _not_ in love?" Gil countered. "I mean, just _look_ at him."

Antonio looked, following his friend's finger until his gaze met with a forlorn sight. Lovino looked like a ripped-up ticket stub, thrown on the floor and ground beneath the heel of somebody's boot. This was the Lovino that Antonio resented—the Lovino that felt sorry for himself, the Lovino that was so afraid of getting hurt, the Lovino that believed nobody would ever love him.

Antonio was suddenly struck by a feeling of affection for that sorry little figure, and by a determination to make him see that he _was_ worthy of love.

"See?" Gillian said softly, having found something in Antonio's expression that proved her point exactly.

"Just ask him to dance," Francis instructed his friend. "He might say no, sure—but chances are, he won't. Not tonight."

And, for reasons not entirely clear to Antonio, he found himself nodding and striding over to where Lovino stood.

_I can't walk through life facing backwards.__  
__I have tried,__  
__I tried more than once to just make sure.__  
__And I was denied the future I'd been searching for,__  
__But I spun around and hurt no more,__  
__By living in the moment._

Many stories start this way. Some are good, some are bad, some are hilarious, some are just plain weird. A few would give you hope for humanity. But the truly rare story, the four leaf clover of stories, does not _start_ this way; it _middles_ this way.

This story is one of those.

A lonely man stood at a bar.

He watched the couples swirling around him, a kaleidoscope of personality and color, form and function, shape and style. He heard the laughter, the voices, the music. He felt their happiness radiating off of them in waves of smiling faces.

He had another drink.

He wouldn't admit to himself how much he wished he could join them. That would reveal to him, and to the world, how weak he was, how cowardly. How much of a failure.

Because he could never join them. He had told himself that he didn't need it, and somehow, in the persuasion, had forgotten how.

A lonely man wondered if he would be lonely forever.

He closed his eyes and rested his head on the bar. The bar was hard and solid, and it didn't mind that he was broken inside. He liked the harsh wood of the bar. It didn't pretend to be something it wasn't, and it didn't change its mind and decide not to accept him after all.

He could sleep here for a little while.

One of his ears was deafened, pressed as it was to the hard wood counter, but the other was still capable of hearing, and this is what it heard:

"Excuse me, sir?"

A lonely man looked up to see a second man extending a hand to him. The second man was tall, but not too tall; muscular, but not too muscular; and handsome beyond words. He put Greek gods to shame. Hell, he put _professional models_ to shame. He put fucking _young Leonardo Decaprio_ to shame. And those eyes, like ornate pieces of emerald jewelry … that skin, smooth and tan and sultry … that hair, just disheveled enough to be sexy … _that smile_. That smile could make the sun jealous.

Yeah, he was pretty much the lonely man's perfect guy. An eleven point five out of then.

The eleven point five wondered for a brief moment what he was doing, then decided that he was doing what he wanted to do right now, in this moment, and that was all that mattered.

He bowed.

"May I have the pleasure of this dance?"

And in that moment, both men could hear their hearts beating as though they were huge drums, pounding out the rhythm to which the Earth danced.

After an infinity of deliberation, Lovino decided, "Why the fuck not. But only if I lead, got that, bastard?"

Antonio smiled. "If you say so, Lovi~."

And he ended up leading anyway.

_I'm letting myself off the hook for things I've done,__  
__I let my past go past,__  
__And now I'm having more fun._

"Oh, my God."

"What? Did Gil just admit she's not awesome? YES."

"I wish, but … No. Look at that."

"What?"

"That."

"Wha - _oh_."

"I know, right?"

"It's amazing."

"Took them long enough."

"I mean, they're … They're _dancing_."

"He's _smiling_."

"He's actually not that bad looking when he smiles."

"Someone, call the New York Times! We have a one-in-a-lifetime occurrence here."

"Nah, something tells me it's going to be a lot more common around here …"

"Do you really think so?"

"If they keep their act together, yeah."

_And if I fall asleep,__  
__I know you'll be the one who'll always remind me,__  
__To live in the moment._

Pro of getting drunk: It's a lot easier to live in the moment.

Con of getting drunk: Things you can normally do easily (i.e. walking, standing, talking) become suddenly extremely difficult.

Contra-pro to aforementioned con: There will usually be some willing (read: stupid) friend/relative/significant other around to make sure you get home without hurting yourself or the world at large.

For Lovino, that person was Antonio.

Walking home from the now-empty bar with his drunk charge staggering under his supporting arm, Antonio looked around at the silent world of Philadelphia at three o'clock in the morning.

It was a new year, but it honestly didn't look all that different. Same streets, same buildings, same stars, same moon, same annoying pothole always out to trip you just when you aren't looking where you're going … Same Lovino.

Or … was it?

Was Lovino the same?

Well, he was drunk now, sure, Antonio knew, but he would wake up the next morning with a killer hangover, cuss at everything in existence, and be the same.

Yeah. Definitely.

There was no way that what had just happened would change things.

Lovino wouldn't remember all the songs they'd danced to, all the smiles they'd shared the next morning.

And that was for the best, right?

The old Antonio, the one from the previous year, who was determined not to make the same mistakes - to start caring about someone who didn't share his feelings - thought that it was.

The new Antonio, from this year, who had lived in the moment and danced with someone he'd always thought would reject him wasn't so sure.

"Hey, Tonio," the person in question slurred.

"Si, Lovi~?" his bulwark asked.

"You're really hot, you know that?" Lovino said, grinning this stupid, wide grin that had Antonio grinning, too—and wasn't that the reverse of what usually happened? "Really, really hot … Like, even hotter than Leonar … nar … Nardo-de-whats-his-face … That really hot guy …"

"Really?"

This was a new development, certainly, Antonio thought.

"Really … How do you do it? With your sexy face and your sexy ass and your sexy … sexy fucking everything …" The Italian attempted to demonstrate with his hands. It didn't work very well, but Antonio got the idea.

"You think I'm sexy …" the Spaniard said slowly.

"Did I not just fucking say that?" Lovino replied, annoyed. "_Dio._ What are you, deaf? Deaf and sexy, just my goddamned luck."

_He thinks I'm sexy._

Antonio wasn't sure why he found this fact so amazing, and he wasn't sure why he wanted to do what he wanted to do.

But, hell, he was a little drunk, too, and drinking takes away your inhibitions and helps you to live in the moment.

What he did next wasn't planned, or long-desired, or even for a good reason.

It was living in the moment.

Doing what he wanted to do, without caring about the consequences, because it just felt right.

"Lovino."

"Yes, sexy bastard?"

"Can I kiss you?"

The no longer lonely man turned on legs suddenly steady, wound his arms around his savior's neck, and tasted a Spaniard's smile.

Antonio took that as a yes.

_If this life is one act,__  
__Why do we lay all these traps?__  
__We put them right in our path,__  
__When we just wanna be free._

It's quite a difficult task to open the door to one's apartment whilst making out, but Antonio somehow managed it. (Perhaps it's a special talent. He should teach classes on how to do it - he could probably make a pretty penny that way.)

But once the door is open … The possibilities are endless. Bed or couch? Or perhaps dining room table? Or even floor? Windows open or closed? Blankets or no blankets? How much tongue? Clothes on or off? Who tops?

How far to go?

Antonio and Lovino didn't ask themselves any of those questions. They just let things happen as they'd happen.

(How they happened: living room floor, windows closed, no blankets, a good amount of tongue, clothes on, Antonio topped, not much farther than kissing and touching. Just thought you might have wanted to know.)

There were no declarations of love, no cliché romanticisms. Just a good make-out session.

Actually, "good" doesn't even begin to cover it.

It was, like, the _Chuck Norris_ of make-out sessions. It roundhouse-kicked every other so-called "good" make-out session in the face.

Yeah, I know, you're jealous.

It can't be described very well, because neither of the participants remembered it very well.

Lovino remembered a hazy fuzz featuring green eyes, a passionate mouth, the smell of Spanish wine, the feel of hot skin, and the sound of himself calling out in Italian things that he had never thought he'd ever say.

Antonio remembered bits and pieces - a kiss here, a touch there, a sound here, a taste there. He remembered a voice calling for more, more, _more_, but he couldn't remember whose it was. He remembered a trail of fire leading from his mouth down his neck to his collarbone. He remembered the taste of tomatoes mixed with olive oil and champagne.

And when he woke up the next morning on a cold, hard living room floor, those bits and pieces were thrown into a melting pot with the past few months' worth of conversations, thoughts, feelings, and experiences, stirred up, and boiled on high. The product was a realization that would change him and everyone around him, cause heartbreak, pain, fear, and immeasurable happiness, make an amazing story, and possibly stop global warming.

(Okay, I lied about that last one. But it was still pretty important.)

_Living our life,__  
__Easy and breezy,__  
__With peace in my mind._

Francis Bonnefoy awoke in a strange apartment with a hangover the size of Justin Bieber's vagina to the sound of AC/DC's infamous "Big Balls."

Reminding himself _yet again_ to change his ringtone to something more sophisticated (perhaps something French), the womanizer answered it.

"_Oui?_ The master of _l'amour_ is speaking. What do you want with him at such an early time in the morning?"

"Francis," Antonio said gravely, "you were right."

The self-proclaimed master of _l'amour_ chuckled. "Well, of course I was right, _Antoine_, _ohonhon_~ Ah, what on, specifically?"

The Spaniard took a deep breath, gave himself a small mental pep talk, and let it out.

"I'm in love with Lovino."

"Well, of course you are," Francis replied. "Took you long enough to figure that out, didn't it, _mon ami?"_

_I'm living in the moment._


	14. Everything is Sound

**Look at that, I'm posting before midnight! Half an hour before midnight, but still! Go me.**

**So, who's excited about the new Doctor Who episodes coming out in ONLY EIGHT DAYS? Answer: I am. I want to find out how Clara lived. MY BODY IS READY.**

**Speaking of Doctor Who … I'm in the Russian exchange at my school, and hosting is currently going on, so there's a Russian girl living in my house as I write. She's pretty cool, and, um, I may or may not have gotten her hooked on Doctor Who. Oops. (Not sorry.)**

**Anyway … Enjoy the chapter. It's a Valentine's Day chapter, even though it's March now. But, well, that's how the story goes, so you'll just have to deal with it. :)**

**(P.S. There is a reference to a Snow Patrol song in here. If you find it, I will seriously love you forever. I might even, like, put you into the story or something. I'll get back to anyone who finds it on that ...)**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES**

**14. Everything is Sound**

_It's a song that I've forgotten often,__  
__It doesn't make me wrong,__  
__Cause we all need the darkness, to see the light,__  
__In our own eyes, come on, and sing it._

It was Valentine's Day. Ugh.

Lovino Vargas turned over and tried to go back to sleep.

It didn't happen.

_Fuck_.

There were few things Lovino hated more than Valentine's Day, and that wasn't just because of the bad memories. Sure, the bad memories probably had something to do with it, he wouldn't deny that—but they had prompted so much _more_, all of these philosophies about why, precisely, Valentine's Day was a bitch.

See, Valentine's Day had made love _commercial_. Lovino was all for love, but private love. Love, in his mind, was when two people cared for each other so much, they would forgive each other, no matter what. Unconditionally.

How could love be unconditional when it was packaged into little boxes of chocolates and sold in shops with huge, pink and red paper hearts on the doors? How could love be unconditional when it was advertised and used as a marketing device for flower companies, chocolate companies, restaurants, and probably a hundred other franchises? How could love be unconditional when it was more potent on one particular day of the year than on all of the others?

In Lovino's opinion, if you were in love with someone, you were in love every single day of your life from that realization outward, regardless of the date. He believed that _every_ day, not just Valentine's Day, was a celebration of love—but in private, with smiles, and caring touches, and random acts of kindness from one partner to another.

He also believed that love should be kept private because he didn't want to see it.

Lovino had yet to find love, and he was pretty much positive that it would never happen. So why—God, _why_—did people have to keep flaunting it in public? Didn't they notice that there was a lonely man sitting in the corner, seeing the looks in their eyes and trying not to cry, because he wanted it so badly?

No, of course they didn't. Lovino was able to sympathize with Matt, because on one day of the year—the day celebrating couples everywhere—he felt completely invisible around his friends. Especially this year, when even Matt was paired up with Gillian, he'd have nobody to turn to. Nobody was single, except him.

And, well … Except Antonio.

Antonio.

There had been that one night, New Year's Eve, when everything could have changed. Lovino didn't remember much of that night, other than the dancing, and the making out, and the feeling of Antonio whispering something sweet in Spanish, his breath ticklish against Lovino's ear.

He couldn't for the life of him remember what it had been, though—probably something like, "You're so horrible, I never want to speak to you again."

See, Lovino knew exactly what had happened that night: it had been a fluke. Lovino was drunk and probably more dejected than a sports nut whose team had just lost the Superbowl, and Antonio took pity on his poor, loveless roommate, because he was a fucking nice person like that.

The Italian had been so pissed off because of the whole thing that, when he'd woken up the next morning, he had quickly escaped the apartment and the sight of _Antonio_, with his stupid smiling face and his stupid bed hair and his stupid chest and his stupid everything.

They hadn't spoken of the … _incident_ since, mostly because Lovino had been avoiding the subject like the plague. Of course, Antonio didn't want to think about it either.

Obviously.

Why would someone like Antonio actually _want_ to make out with someone like Lovino?

It had to have been a fluke.

Sighing in consternation, the Italian dragged himself out of bed and contented himself by chucking a few pillows at the wall.

_When there is love, or when the heart feels heavy,__  
__We can lighten it up, if you've had enough,__  
__Well, you can empty your glass and we can fill it back up.  
__You know it's up to us to make it all up,  
__So what you making up? I can make it up back,  
__You could be loved no matter what._

The old flower-seller loved Valentine's Day more than any of the other days in the year—and not just because it was her best selling day.

She loved the smiling faces of the people who would come to her, asking for flowers. She loved to ask them who the flowers were for and to listen to their stories. She collected Valentine's Day stories the way other ladies her ages collected stamps, gossip, hearing age, bridge tricks, or pictures of their grandchildren.

It was the glow that drew her—that glow in the heart of every person in love on the day created in celebration of that value. It shone in their eyes, in their voices, in their clasped hands, and in their smiling faces. If anyone ever dared to tell her that there was no true love in this world, she would tell him to look for that glow.

It was a glow of hope for the future, and it made her believe in the future herself.

Sixty long years—sixty years since her husband had confessed to her on Valentine's Day, the glow radiating off of him like iridescent sunlight even though his voice tripped over over-prepared words. Since he had given her flowers bought from her mother's stand, as a promise.

It had been forty years since he had broken that promise. Thirty years since she had given up hope.

Hope that the glow of Valentine's Day somehow always managed to return to her. "Hello, old friend," it seemed to say, smiling sagely. "Long time no see. How have you been? I can't stay long, but I hope we can have some good times while I'm here."

The old woman stood on her street corner all day on Valentine's Day, selling hundreds of red roses, no matter what the weather. She watched the streets around her—watched for clasped hands, laughter, that particular kind of smile that never fails to get the fangirls squealing. She stood there until dark, when all of the happy couples were left to each other's company and she was left to her lonely memories.

The sun was setting, the streets empty.

Time to go.

Aged hands stored in leather gloves reached for the boxes in which flowers would be stored—reached hesitantly, not wanting this Valentine's Day to end the way all of the others had—

"Miss! Miss, please wait!"

He was a young boy—younger in spirit than in years, she thought, looking at his earnest assurance. He had the air of a peasant who will never rise in life, but is completely content with what he has. His eyes were green, like a forest in the summer, and he wore an old knit cap over rambunctious ebony curls.

He had the glow, she realized. Stronger than most, too. It seemed as though he produced the glow—as though he could give it to other people.

"Miss," he said, "could you sell me a rose, please?"

She smiled, reveling in the glow, even though she knew it wasn't for her. "Of course. I could never resist an eager customer. Which would you like?"

Most of her customers simply picked a rose at random, but this man took his time—searching for a rose that was special, unique, extraordinary.

He settled for one with a small bloom protected by an unusual amount of thorns. Other customers had passed it by for fear of the thorns, but this man went saw beyond them to the beautiful bud beneath.

"Is this for someone special?" the flower-seller asked, knowing the answer before it was given.

"Yeah," he replied. "I want to confess to the person I love and ask him out, and I want it to be special."

_Him_. She mentally rose an eyebrow at the unexpected pronoun. Few would openly admit their sexual preferences to a stranger on the street; this guy was either very brave or very stupid. Or perhaps both.

"What are you doing for … _him_?" she questioned her customer—and if he noticed the emphasis on the last word, he didn't comment.

"I'm singing for him," the man explained. "I work at a restaurant, you see, as the live musician, and he works as a waiter there, so I wrote a song for him, and I'm going to sing it tonight. And then, I'm going to put the rose on his doorstep with a note asking him out. And we share an apartment, so I'll be waiting inside, with candles and romantic music and … Yeah." He grinned, daydreaming of how the evening might go.

"That sounds lovely," the flower-seller told him, unable to keep from smiling back. "I'm sure he'll feel very special."

"That's the idea, since he doesn't normally. Feel special, that is," the customer added, elaborating.

The old woman tried to remember the last time someone had made her feel special. It had been a long time, too long.

"Hey," the man said suddenly, an idea dawning on him, "would you like to come to the restaurant with me? It seems like you're closing up. I can help you with that, to make it quicker—I ran out here during my break, and I don't have much time left—but I'd love it if you would come with me."

The flower-seller was astonished, mystified, honored. She wondered briefly who this man was in love with—he must really be something, to attract this prince of a man.

"That sounds wonderful. Thank you very much," she said.

"It's no problem at all, really," he replied honestly.

He continued to tell her about his special someone as he helped her clean up (five times faster than she usually did it herself) and led her to the restaurant.

At the door, an old gentleman with a distinguished air and a twinkle in his eye held the door open for her and smiled at her as though she was sixteen again.

The old woman felt the glow—and not second-hand, as she had for decades now, but for real.

_La la la la, let's all sing.__  
__La la la la, laying it down.__  
__Everything is sound._

_La la la la, Hallelujah,__  
__We're connected now._

"_Buenos noches,_ everybody," Antonio called out into the Valentine's Day crowd, giving them one of his signature grins.

The bar was really packed that day, both with couples enjoying a fun night out and singles hoping to get lucky. It was easy to tell the difference between the two groups; the members of couples were all held to their partners by unbreakable blonds—hands, arms, feet, mouths, and so on. Plus, the couples looked genuinely happy, faces glowing whenever they so much as glanced at each other, while the singles glared at them with jealousy.

Of course, there were a few who didn't really belong to either group. Antonio decided to call them the Hopeful. They were the ones who were going to finally ask out that one person they'd had a crush on all hear. They were the ones who had gotten a haircut or a new outfit the day before with a certain someone in mind. They were the ones who hadn't slept the night before. They were the ones who looked at the couples with expressions reading, _Sure, you have something awesome, but by the end of the night, I'll have something better, just you watch._

Antonio was one of them.

One of the Hopeful.

"_Antonio, it's Valentine's Day. You have to do something."_

"_About what?"_

"_About … You know perfectly well what I'm talking about!"_

"_I do?"_

"… _Lovino, you idiot."_

"_Thank you for that compliment, Gil, I'm honored. And what about Lovino?"_

"_You need to ask him out!"_

"_Why?"_

"_You love him, he loves you, and yet you are not having passionate sex. There is something very wrong with that. Or are you not aware with the laws of the universe?"_

"_Um … Since when does he love me?"_

"_Since … Jesus, Antonio, did you not make out with him on New Year's Eve?"_

"_Well, technically, it was New Year's Day by that point, but … Yeah."_

"_And?"_

"_And I liked it, a lot, but clearly he didn't, because he didn't mention it at all afterwards!"_

"_Or maybe he did, but he's too shy and insecure to mention it. Have you considered that?"_

"_But … But …"_

"_Look, it's not really my place to tell you the whole story, so I'll just say that in high school, our fair Lovi got sort-of turned against love. Pretty badly. So now he doesn't believe anyone is capable of falling in love with him. Thus, if he feels that way about someone—about you—he'll shut his mouth and wait for it to go away."_

"… _Oh. _Oh. _Poor Lovi."_

"_So you should ask him out, basically. Don't wait for him to confess to you—that could take years. Initiate it! Make a move! Be a man! Be awesome!"_

"_Do it on Valentine's Day. Do something really romantic—get him flowers, or serenade him, or something."_

"_Do you think it'll work?"_

"_Chicks dig it, and Lovino's Italian, so yeah, it'll work."_

"_Okay … Okay. Okay, I can do this."_

"_Do you want help writing the song?"_

"_Thanks, Francis, but I think this is something I need to do myself …"_

"So, I was thinking," Antonio said, "that, what with today being Valentine's Day and all, I should dedicate my new song to all of the happy couples out there."

Aforementioned happy couples cheered.

"But then," he continued, "I thought, what about the singles? So much of this day is geared towards couples that all of the singles here to night must feel really lonely and left out—why not dedicate it to them?"

Aforementioned singles cheered.

"But then, finally," the Spaniard went on, the hooked audience now hanging on his every word, "I decided this: Valentine's Day is about love, right?"

He took the screaming and applauding that followed to mean "yes."

"So, I want to dedicate this song to everyone here who has lost love, found love, is looking for love, or loves anyone at all. And, in particular, to one person. Do you see that waiter, the one with the sullen expression and the strange curl coming out of the top of his red-brown hair, the one with the cheeks that are now blushing an adorable tomato red?"

He pointed to the waiter in question, whose face was indeed turning red, as well as going from shocked to flattered to ready to kill the next thing that moved with a chainsaw on full power.

"You goddamned bastard, what the fuck are you plan—"

"That is Lovino Vargas. He doesn't believe he will find love."

The subsequent boos he received did not help the waiter's condition any.

"Well, I want this song to help him do that. And you guys can help me out with that. _Sí_?"

"_Sí_!" they roared.

"_SÍ?"_

"_SÍ!"_

"Okay, this song is partly for everybody here tonight," Antonio yelled, "partly for love, and mostly for you, Lovi."

And all of the sound in the bar suddenly fled the proximity, scared off by the sheer power of the song's opening notes.

"_When there is love, I can't wait to talk about it.__  
__When things get rough, I like to walk with you …"_

_Let's sing to be happy, to feel things, to communicate, and be heard.__  
__Or sing out to protest, and to project, and to harmonize with birds.__  
__Whether it's your birthday or your dying day,__  
__It's a celebration, to,__  
__Rejoice, to use your voice and give wings to any of choice.__  
_

"How does he do it?" Matt wondered quietly, examining something on the other side of the bar.

"How does who do what?" Gillian asked, glancing at her boyfriend as she poured a gin and tonic for a sleek woman in a black cocktail dress.

"Antonio," the Canadian clarified. "How does he manage to get such a huge crowd of people to like him? Look at them, all waving their arms and dancing along. It's incredible. I wish I could do that."

"No, Mattie, you don't, not really," Gil said, smiling at him fondly. "You're content to only be really liked by a few people. Like, say, me."

"I … I guess so," Matt replied. Huh. He hadn't thought of it that way before.

"And I think it has something to do with how much he loves what he's doing," the Prussian went on, answering Matt's earlier question. "He has fun, so everyone else starts to have fun, too." Then, she got that twinkle in her eye that always used to mean trouble, but these days, sometimes meant an actually amazing idea.

"Hey, Matt. Let's have some fun."

And before he could even think of protesting, she had climbed over the counter and was dragging him out onto the dance floor.

"But … But … Gil …" Matt stammered out, a little too late. "Are you …"

"My shift ends in five minutes, so what the hell. It's Valentine's Day." Gillian shrugged, and her grin had gotten a little less assured and a little more shy, as though she was actually imagining that Matt might not want to dance with her.

"Happy Valentine's Day," the Canadian said—and, summoning a sudden burst of bravery, he leaned forward and kissed her.

It was probably his best idea yet.

_And know the only time is right now, it's right where... where you are.__  
__You don't need a vacation when there's nothing to escape from.__  
_

Roma looked at Aldrich. Aldrich looked at Roma.

They had perfected it down to a routine over the years. Roma would ask Aldrich to dance, and Aldrich would refuse. Roma would ask again, and Aldrich would make some excuse—he was a bad dancer, or he was tired, or there wasn't room. Roma would say, please, he would refute any points Aldrich had made, he would insist that it was Valentine's Day, they _had_ to dance. Roma would look at him like he was this precious, beautiful thing, and Aldrich would sigh and allow himself to be led into just this one dance. Gillian would take a picture, to prove that her grandfather actually was a romantic at heart.

Old couples are the most wondrous of them all, because they know each other so well, like two halves of the same whole, and yet sometimes, they still manage to surprise the rest of us. They bring us to marvel at the astonishing beauty of life on Earth.

Roma looked at Aldrich. Aldrich looked at Roma.

Aldrich grinned and pulled Roma out onto the dance floor.

_Set your vibration and undulation to the highest it can go,__  
__And trust me, hear me,__  
__If it makes you wanna sing,__  
__Just sing it.__  
_

Valentine's Day was Felicia's favorite holiday. She loved to watch all of the people who came to _Il Stomaco Felice_ on that day—she loved how happy they were, as though joy was billowing up from their cores and spilling out of their faces.

Felicia watched Antonio as he sang his song for Lovino (oh, they _had_ to get together soon, it was starting to become painful, especially now that Tonio had realized his feelings) and she watched the people dancing. Although she could pick out individual faces—there was Aldrich and Roma, and there was Gil and Matt, and there was Vash and Roddy, and there was Lizzy and her girlfriend, what was her name, Katya—all of them blurred together into a kaleidoscope of smiling faces, heads on shoulders, voices singing along to Antonio's song. He'd made the chorus simple so that anyone could sing along to it, with all of those "ha-la-la"s and "let's all sing"s.

This song was her favorite one yet, she thought. Probably because he had written it for Valentine's Day.

Felicia had to admit that she was a little selfish. She did like the day of love because she loved how happy people were in general, but most of the reason she enjoyed it was because of the person she spent it with.

The Italian girl caught her fiancée's eye, where she was working her shift at the bar. Louise wasn't wearing anything special—just jeans, some T-shirt, her usual headphones—but Felicia knew her, and she knew how to spot that special glow that meant she was excited.

Felicia waved, beaming at the person she loved most in the world.

Louise blushed, gave a small wave back, and then went back to her work.

It was going to be a good night.

Well, for her … Maybe not for her brother so much. Unless …

Felicia sidled up to Lovino, where he was leaning against an abandoned part of the bar, watching Antonio with a look of wistful wanting in his eyes.

"You like him, don't you?" she asked, laughing when he jumped, startled by her sudden entrance.

"I … I don't … What are you talking about?" he retorted, eyes flashing defensively.

"Antonio, obviously," Felicia said, tossing her hair.

"I definitely don't like him. Definitely, not at all, nope," Lovino said assuredly—perhaps _too_ assuredly, his sister thought.

"Don't lie to your favorite sister," she chastised him. "I see the way you look at him. And after what happened on New Year's … You want to marry him and live out on a farm somewhere and grow tomatoes and sleep under the stars! Oh, that would be so _cute_~!"

"I do not!" Lovino exclaimed, but the color of his cheeks told a different story.

"I'm sure you don't," Felicia assured him, smiling fondly. She patted her brother on the shoulder in farewell, then went back to the kitchen—Francis probably needed some help, what with the number of people in the restaurant.

The Italian girl had found happiness, in this place, in her art, and in Louise's arms. All she wanted was for her brother to be just as happy as she was.

And, well, if her hunch was right (and her hunches usually were), that might be happening soon …

_When it's night, I like to be the light that's missing,__  
__And remind you every minute of the future, is it written?__  
__Not yet.__  
_

Nobody should have to walk alone on Valentine's Day, but there Lovino was, plodding home all by himself after the end of his shift, feeling like a ticket stub that someone had ripped up and thrown on the floor.

He had thought—hoped, even—that Antonio would be there to walk home with him, to jabber on about some nonsensical thing and make Lovino laugh, but the Spaniard had run out as soon as he finished his last song, eager to do … something-or-other.

He was probably going to make a move on some girl he liked, Lovino thought.

Lovino sighed, hung his head, and wondered if anyone would care if he just turned on some random street, and walked in some random direction, and never went home.

Felicia might care, but she had Louise, she didn't need him. Roma wouldn't care, not really, he had always liked Feli more. His so-called friends (Matt, Francis, Gil) would forget about him soon enough. And Antonio …

Antonio was something else altogether. Lovino understood the idiotic Spaniard more now than he had in the past, but what the man felt about some things—about _Lovino_—was still a mystery.

Lovino thought back to his memory of that one night—of the time he kissed Antonio, and found himself wanting more—and thought that maybe, just maybe, Antonio would care.

Antonio might just miss him if he never went home.

And that was enough to keep Lovino putting one step in front of the other, enough to keep him from stepping into some random store and buying a huge bottle of wine and getting drunk off of his ass, enough to make him not dread his home, because Antonio might be there, Antonio with his kind words and his contagious cheer and the song he'd written, just for Lovino.

It was enough to keep Lovino walking home until he ascended the stairs to his apartment and saw it.

There, on the doorstep, basking smugly in the moonlight, was a single red rose.

A note was tied to it with garden twine. It consisted of five simple words:

"_Will you be my valentine?"_

And it was signed, "_Antonio Fernandez Carriedo."_

Lovino's heart announced it was officially done and did its very best to jump right out of his chest.

_How could he have known?_


	15. Be Honest

**So I was watching Puss in Boots with my sister earlier today, and we spent basically the entire movie making fun of how little sense it made (They dance in midair? On each other's boots? What?!) and trying to convince our parents that it was actually worth watching (It may have five different fairy tales, but hey, it's awesome.) Oh, and also, how hot would a human Puss be? Very hot. I see him as pirate!Antonio, only with maybe a bit of Santiago (?) thrown in. (If you don't know who that is, we can't be friends. No, I kid, I kid, he plays Lancelot in Merlin, and his job is basically to be very noble and very hot.)**

**In other news, new Doctor Who episode tomorrow! I'm excited. I'm even going to a Doctor Who party to celebrate the occasion, and I'm cosplaying as Clara (an actual brunette character that I look somewhat like! This is a rare occasion, folks.) It's going to be awesome.**

**Also, about reviews: I didn't get to any of the reviews on chapter fourteen. I'm sorry, I'll get to them eventually, I promise! I've just been really busy, I guess … I appreciate every single review I get, and I always try to reply to them as soon as I can (especially when they're really nice, like the twelve—TWELVE!—I got on chapter fourteen) but it doesn't always happen. So if you get a belated review reply some time tomorrow or Sunday … That's why.**

**Anyway … This chapter is very angsty. And probably not all that good quality. Consider yourself warned.**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES  
****15. Be Honest**

_Okay go, go hang your heart on any tree,  
You can make yourself available to anybody,  
Cause every livin' person knows you are a prize,  
__Whichever way you go I'll be easy to find,  
__I don't ask for much, just be honest with me._

_How could he have known?_

That one rose, those five words … It was all the same, it was all happening again as it had five years ago, during Lovino's sophomore year of high school …

He was amazing. He was the star soccer player and the star of the debate team. He had the best grades in the school without studying. He had tanned skin, toned arms, long legs. Curly dark hair. Eyes always hidden behind dark glasses. And he was so tall—almost seven feet, a giant to Lovino's awkward, gangly, uneven, still-not-through-puberty-yet five-four.

But, more importantly, he had something Lovino was starting to feel he would never get: respect.

He wasn't popular, that was for sure—he picked far too many fights and made far too many wise-guy comments for that—but he was _imposing_. Nobody messed with him, or they paid a price some had learned the hard way. He was confident, arrogant, cocky, invincible.

To little Lovino Vargas, picked on for his clumsiness, his readily blushing face, and his heavy Italian accent, he was a god.

Lovino never would have admitted it, but he would have defeated a horde of a thousand drunk Frenchmen for Sadiq Adnan.

It was no surprise that, on Valentine's Day, when a single rose with the words, "Will you be my valentine? – Sadiq" attached landed in his locker, Lovino's excited squeal—excuse me, _manly shriek_—could be heard from outer space.

_My love is unconditional, make no mistake,  
I don't ask for much, just be honest with me.  
_

Once the initial shock wore off, Lovino couldn't believe the sudden turn of events. Surely the rose wasn't meant for him. After all, there were so many other candidates for Sadiq's admiration, candidates who were prettier, nicer, smarter, more popular, female, more _worthy_ of that rose than Lovino, that awkward, introverted sophomore with the tendency to swear excessively. How would Sadiq have known him anyway, Lovino wondered. Lovino was only that strange kid who spent his free period staring at the Turk from a safe distance in the library; how would Sadiq have _noticed_ him, let alone fallen for him? No, it wasn't possible. The rose was probably meant for Elizaveta, the sassy, beautiful, tomboy-ish girl with whom Sadiq could frequently be found debating (when she wasn't bickering with Gillian, her best frenemy.)

Lovino told himself that he had never really liked Sadiq all that much in the first place.

It was with that in mind that he marched up to the boy in the courtyard after school that day, the rose in his hand and a shaky determination in his step.

"H-hey. You. Bastard," he said, holding the rose behind his back, trying to sound confident, strong—like Sadiq.

The Turkish boy turned around slowly, savoring the blush on Lovino's face as though it was an expensive delicacy. "What?" he drawled.

"I … I need to talk to you," the Italian announced.

Sadiq spread his arms wide, mouth smirking, eyes undetectable behind ever-present sunglasses. "Talk away."

"I-in private."

Sadiq's friends made the appropriate monkey noises, but the Turk shushed them, his face suddenly more serious. With a quick, easy grace, he jumped off of his bench, grabbed the Italian by the wrist, and pulled him out of the courtyard and into an abandoned stairwell.

Lovino could have noticed the plastered walls, the dirty floor, the broken radiator, the ancient flyers taped to the door—but he only noticed the arrogant grin, the strong hands, and the boy they belonged to, suddenly alone with him.

"What is it?" Sadiq demanded.

"This." Lovino drew out the rose, watched a smile—happiness? Assuredness? Something else?—grow on its giver's face.

"What about it?"

"Is it … Well, is it some kind of a fucking joke? Tease the Italian Day? Ask Lovino out and see if he falls for it? Or was it a mistake? Meant for someone else? Fuck, stop _smiling_, damn it!"

"A joke?" Sadiq asked, sounding almost furious. "Meant for someone else? When I've been watching you all this time?"

"The … The fuck?" Lovino found himself stuttering. Maybe … But no, it couldn't be … But …

"Is this …"

Suddenly, a pair of lips were on Lovino's—hard, quick, deep, penetrating, _passionate_ lips. They said that they would not be tamed, but they said that they—and their owner—were his. It was over too soon. Lovino opened his eyes, craving more.

"… a joke?"

"Fuck you," Lvoino replied, breathless—sunglasses only inches away from his eyes.

"Oh, I'd love to," Sadiq breathed, and wasn't that just music to Lovino's ears.

_Woah_. This was … incredible. Unbelievable. Lovino was _flying_. He would never look down on himself again, because Sadiq—_Sadiq_—liked him.

"Yes, I'll be your valentine, you damn amazing bastard."

Lovino's first make-out session occurred with his back against the cold wall of a stairwell. He didn't care, though, because, well, _God_. Passion was like nothing he'd ever experienced before—like love and worship and ownership and a sense of devouring, all rolled into one.

Although he did find it odd that Sadiq never removed his sunglasses.

_Who we are when love is what it wants to be,  
We are free, and we are having the best day ever by far,  
Being treated to the light like a superstar._

The time that followed was, for Lovino, something just short of heaven. He didn't care that Felicia's smile when she told him, "I'm so happy for you, _fratello_~!" hadn't been genuine; he didn't care that Roma wasn't eager to meet his son's new boyfriend; he didn't care that Gillian believed Sadiq was an _arshloch_; he didn't care that Francis said he didn't see the _amour_ in their relationship; he didn't care that Elizaveta hadn't become a Sadiq/Lovino fangirl the way she had with all other homosexual couple sin the school; all he cared about was that _he was Sadiq's boyfriend._

Lovino—not some clever, beautiful girl or some smart, attractive guy, but _Lovino_—was the boyfriend of Sadiq Anan. He was the boy who got to hold Sadiq's hand in the hallways, and sit next to him (and sometimes on his lap) at lunch, and ride home from school in his car every day, and go on dates with him to the movie theater or the pizza place in town. He was the boy who held Sadiq's gaze and went with him to senior parties and kissed that wise-cracking mouth in supply closets between classes. He was the boy who wore Sadiq's soccer jacket and cheered for him at debate matches and got to admire the muscles beneath his tight t-shirts up close and personal.

Lovino had always been the type to see the negative in every situation, but in this situation, how could he see anything but positive? After all, he was basically the luckiest guy in the school. There were no drawbacks to being Sadiq's boyfriend.

At least, not that he saw.

_Think of this song as a promise, you can do what you want,  
If you decide you wanna move into a new stage,  
Deleting me from pages in your mission statement.  
_

Three months had gone by—three beautiful, perfect months—when Lovino sat outside at lunch one day, half working on his bio homework and half doodling hearts with SA + LV inscribed inside in the margins of his notebook. He whistled blissfully, enjoying the spring air.

"Working hard or hardly working?" asked a voice from behind him.

Lovino suddenly found himself face-to-face with Elizaveta, in skinny jeans, flip-flops, and a t-shirt that he didn't understand, her curly brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail.

He blushed and attempted to cover up his drawings, but she peeked around him and still managed to catch a glimpse. "Hardly working," she deduced. "Well, whatever, that's good, because I need to talk to you."

Uh-oh. This couldn't be good.

But what could it be about, Lovino wondered. Surely not him and Sadiq? Things were great between them … Weren't they?

"It's about you and Sadiq," Elizaveta continued, confirming the Italian's worst fears.

"What the fuck is it, then?" he asked harshly. "Get it over with quickly, I have shit to do." Well, actually, the homework wasn't due for two more days, but she didn't need to know that.

"Okay, then, if you insist." The girl took a deep breath, like a policeman about to tell a young child that his mother had been killed in a car accident, and said, "Sadiq tried to make a move on me."

They say that there are multiple stages of despair—levels of hell, if you will. The first is usually shock, followed closely by denial.

"_What_?!" Lovino shouted, loudly enough that a few kids in the vicinity turned to glare at him. "There's no way in hell that's true," he added, more quietly. "Sadiq and I are doing great!"

Elizaveta looked at him sympathetically, and that was worse than any of her words could have been. "Really? Then why did he tell me that he hates you, and is planning on breaking up with you as soon as physically possible, because your whole relationship was a joke, anyway?"

Lovino couldn't breathe.

Sadiq … _hated him_?

Their entire relationship … The best thing in Lovino's life … The thing that had convinced him that life was, in fact, worth living … Was a _joke_?

A sound escaped his lips—a broken, pitiful noise, like the sound of a dying heart. It could vaguely be identified as, "No."

Part of Lovino's brain—the stupid part, the _optimistic_ part—tried to tell him that maybe Elizaveta was lying, maybe she was jealous, maybe it was her that had made a move on Sadiq, not the other way around. But memories of the past three months were flying by like flashbacks from some crappy dramatic movie, memories that Lovino could see in a whole new light now, and …

She wasn't lying.

Lovino remembered a hundred things: times he had grabbed Sadiq's hand in the hallway and the older boy had brushed it aside, times he had called Sadiq, called and called and called and left message after message and never gotten an answer, times he had asked Sadiq if he wanted to do something and Sadiq had made stupid excuses, times Sadiq and his friends had laughed at Lovino, as though they had some sort of cruel private joke that Lovino didn't understand, times Sadiq had showed up late, times Sadiq hadn't showed up at all … And he'd never taken off his sunglasses, while he was with Lovino. Never.

Why had he never taken off his fucking sunglasses?

How hadn't Lovino seen it? How had he been so ignorant and naïve that he had failed to recognize all of the signs that his boyfriend didn't really care for him at all?

Lovino could get a prize for least observant lover. He could win it, hands down.

Honestly, why had he thought Sadiq would even like him in the first place? What was there to _like_ about him? His losing personality? His nonexistent good looks? What?

Elizaveta must have felt bad about the crisis brought on by her confession, because Lovino suddenly felt a comforting hand on his back, soothing him and telling him that she was sorry, but everything would work out okay, that Sadiq was a jerk anyway and Lovino was better off without him.

Lovino nearly slapped her (he may have been dirt under the soles of a proper gentleman's boot, but he would never hit a girl) and escaped her sympathetic glances to run and hide in a bathroom stall somewhere.

He curled up in a ball on the toilet seat and tried to block out echoes of a life that suddenly seemed meaningless.

_He's a jerk anyway. You're better off without him._

But Lovino couldn't survive without Sadiq's affections, even if they were fake, and … Well, that was precisely the problem, wasn't it?

_If I miscommunicated I apologise,  
If the picture that I painted wasn't very nice,  
My love is standing by you whatever you decide,  
I don't ask for much, just be honest, with me,  
I don't ask for much, just be honest, with me.  
_

And so it came to pass that, once again, Lovino needed to talk to Sadiq.

Alone.

His friends laughed loudly, cackling at Lovino as though they already knew what was going to happen—that the little Italian brat was going to get his heart ripped out and stomped all over.

And they thought it was funny. Well, why shouldn't they? It would be funny to Lovino if it wasn't his life that was about to be destroyed.

Cornered in that same stairwell where he'd first been kissed three months (a lifetime) before, Lovino suddenly couldn't bring himself to ask what the hell had been going on.

So, Sadiq needed to instigate the conversation, in that cruel and overbearing tone he always used with his boyfriend—how had Lovino never _noticed_, really?

"So, what the hell is it this time?" he asked, glancing at his watch impatiently.

"Do you … D-do you …" Lovino couldn't say it.

"Come on, spit it out. I don't have all day."

And really, that was so reminiscent of everything—of their entire relationship—that it gave Lovino the anger to ask:

"D-d-do you still … still like me?"

Sadiq laughed, really threw his head back and chuckled in a laugh that Lovino had always loved him for. The irony. "Oh, Lovino," he said, "I always knew you were stupid, but I never realized you were this stupid."

"Wh-what?" Lovino knew he was stupid—had spent all afternoon berating himself about it, in fact—but to hearing from his _boyfriend_ was different. Worse.

"I never liked you," Sadiq explained, with the air of explaining the obvious to someone who was mentally deranged. "Honestly, how could anyone like you, you little freak? You make people feel worse about themselves just by being around."

Well. If Lovino had wanted to get his ego stroked, he had certainly gone to the wrong place. "Then … then why …"

"Why did I pretend? Isn't it obvious?" The Turkish boy grinned, demonic and enticing and how, _how_ could Lovino still want him when he was being so cruel? "To get into your sister's pants."

"… Oh." That made sense, at least. This wouldn't be the first time someone had paid more attention to Felicia than Lovino. He'd thought Sadiq was special, thought that maybe Sadiq actually liked the older Vargas sibling … But apparently, that wasn't the case.

"Yeah, now you get it, you moron," the object of Lovino's misguided affections went on. "Felicia is everything you aren't – cute, peppy, not cursing and pissed off for no good reason all the fucking time, and a total babe."

All things that Lovino already knew—but did he really have to say it like that? As though Lovino was offending him just by standing there?

And besides, part of this still didn't make sense.

"But … She's taken," the Italian stammered, confused and destroyed.

"You think I don't know that?" Sadiq sneered. "You think I'm not cursing your father for not beating the lesbian out of her?"

If anyone else had said that, Lovino would have gone after that person with his fists and his best insults, but this wasn't just anyone—it was Sadiq, who, for some reason, Lovino still couldn't quite bring himself to hate.

Because Lovino was an idiot. A blithering, bleeding idiot. He should be put in a book as an example, so that in the future, nobody would act as stupidly as he had.

And because, apparently, he had a death with, the Italian didn't stop talking. "Well, no, but …"

"But why didn't I break up with you when she started dating that German bitch?" Sadiq predicted.

Lovino nodded, feeling like a sad puppet on a lonely string.

"See, you're so stupid, I can even predict what you're going to say next. Loser." The Turk laughed—mean and bullying, the same way he'd laughed at Lovino all of those three months.

"Um, but why?" the younger boy persisted.

Sadiq grinned as he explained it, getting some sort of sick pleasure from his boyfriend's pain. "Well, you see, my friend and I had this bet going, on how long it would take you to figure it out. I lost - thought it would only take you a couple of months. Clearly, I thought you were smarter than you actually are, and that you had a better sense of your total worthlessness as a person … If you can even be called a person …"

It hadn't just been a joke—it had started off as a joke and become a bet.

Lovino wasn't a person to Sadiq—he was an object, a commodity, a thing that existed for his amusement only.

And wasn't that just what he deserved?

But Lovino was selfish, the way all humans are selfish. He wanted to be loved. He had truly been happy with the belief that Sadiq cared about him. Sadiq had taken that belief, that love, that trust, and twisted it to his own warped desires.

Lovino was broken. A shell with nothing inside. Clothes with no man underneath.

"I just wish you were honest with me," he whispered. "Not getting you at all would have been better than getting you and then finding out it was all a lie."

And with that, he ran—out the door, off the school grounds, all of the way home. He thought that maybe, if he ran hard enough, the exertion would take his mind off of the terrible thoughts.

It didn't work.

At some point, the sky opened up and dumped buckets of stinking rainwater over his head, drenching him and pounding on the few remaining pieces of his heart that were still left standing.

Sadiq Anan stood in the stairwell, watching the back of the boy he'd cheated out of his happiness race through the downpour—and, slowly, took off his sunglasses.

…

Two weeks later, Sadiq was dating Elizaveta, and they already had plans to go to the same college and maybe even live together. They were happy, actually happy, the way Sadiq had never been with Lovino. He didn't wear his sunglasses inside any more.

Lovino had closed himself off completely. He was determined that he would never love again—it wasn't worth the pain or the heartbreak.

It could rain forever, as far as he was concerned.

_I can hold space while you see what your heart has to say about me,  
There's no dotted line to sign away your freedom,  
I acknowledge you for what you do to keep strong,  
I'll always get behind you, don't get me wrong,  
I don't ask for much, just be honest with me.  
_

Valentine's Day, five years later. Lovino Vargas stood on the steps up to his apartment, hands shaking as he stared at the rose as though it was the remnants of a murderous disease.

He … He had no idea what to do. He wanted to run away—to Felicia's place, maybe, where she'd give him a room and sympathy and let him lock himself in the bathroom and mope for hours. He wanted to rip up the rose and then burn the pieces, so that its image could never haunt him again. He wanted to stride inside, where Antonio was sure to be waiting for him, and kiss that stupid Spanish bastard senseless, and smile at him and hug him and be his forever.

Lovino Vargas was not the smartest of men, but he was a realistic one. He had learned that all things come to a close eventually—all relationships end in breakup, divorce, or death. Someday, Antonio would realize that this anger-driven, emotionally fragile boy that he had somehow convinced himself he was attracted to was not worth his affections, and he'd move on. Perhaps he'd be more kind about it than Sadiq had been, but that wouldn't make it any easier for the one left behind.

Lovino thought about what that would feel like—to know Antonio, to kiss him, to hug him, to touch him, to have everything he'd wanted, and then have it taken away.

He didn't have to imagine the pain. He and pain were old friends, the way a girl and her menstrual cycle are old friends.

There was only one thing for Lovino to do. It wouldn't be easy, so it would have to be quick.

Hesitantly, step by agonizing step, he approached the door to the apartment—turned the knob—stepped inside. He almost lost his nerve immediately; candles filled the front room, bathing everything in a soft, gentle light, and soft music was playing, and Antonio sat in the middle of it all—and the smile on his face when he saw Lovino was brighter than the light of all of the candles put together.

But Lovino closed his eyes and steeled his nerve, and he remembered that although Italians can't run very quickly towards something, they're quite skilled at running away.

"I can't," he said, quietly but firmly, a general giving his troops the order to fire on innocent civilians. "I'm sorry, Antonio, but I can't."

He didn't let himself look—he _couldn't_ let himself look—to see the dejected expression on the Spaniard's face. Lovino shut himself in his room and locked the door, the way he'd done with his heart five years before.

He closed his eyes, pressed his back against the door, and slid down to sit at the foot of the door, his head in his hands, as though he could shield himself from the bad feelings.

Antonio was knocking—of course he was knocking—and talking to Lovino, cajoling, pleading, trying to understand how a plan he'd been so sure would work could go so horribly wrong.

"Lovi, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to do anything wrong."

"Lovi, I care for you a lot, really, I just want to make you happy."

"Lovi, won't you please talk to me?"

"Lovi, whatever it is, you can tell me."

"Lovi. Lovino. Please, just be honest with me … Do you feel the same things for me that I feel for you?"

_Be honest_.

To be honest … Lovino didn't … He couldn't …

He looked down at his hands and found that they were covered in blood—he must have pricked himself on the thorns of the rose he was clutching so tightly.

_I don't ask for much, just be honest with me._


	16. I'll Do Anything

**The last chapter got over twenty reviews. Over! Twenty! Reviews! On one chapter! A chapter I didn't even like that much! (Be Honest is one of my least favorite Mraz song, and there are chapters, both already posted and to come, that I'm much more proud of.) Thank you, I'm very honored, but …**

_**How**_**?!**

**The only answer I've come up with is that the chapter made a lot of people cry, so they felt the need to tell me. That kind-of makes me sad, because although sometimes the angst is necessary, I don't want to make people cry. Really, I don't. You have to believe me there.**

**This chapter is also a bit angsty (just a bit), but it's going to get better from here, I promise. The next three or four chapters are all good ones.**

**Anyway, please enjoy The Wooing of Lovino Vargas, Part One. I'll just bask in my lovely-review glory and eat chocolate, if that's fine with you. ;)**

* * *

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES**

**16. I'll Do Anything**

_Are you in the mood for some dude, are you in the mood to be subdued,  
Or would you rather just mingle?_

Francis loved Antonio, in a completely platonic (well, not _completely_ platonic—he had to appreciate that ass, after all), three musketeers, best friends for life sort of way, and he would do anything for the guy, but sometimes … Well, sometimes the Spaniard got to be a little much.

Like right now, for instance. This was crossing a line. This, Antonio calling while Francis was about to have sex, was definitely crossing a line.

Seriously. Much as Francis loved his friends and wanted to see them happy, he could do without Antonio calling him in the middle of the night on Valentine's Day to tell him all about how he and Lovino had confessed their love to each other and were having the best night of their lives while Francis fucked some dumb blonde girl whose name he probably wouldn't remember in two weeks.

So, at first, Francis heeded the cries of … Jennifer? Jane? to just ignore the phone and touch her more, there, yes _there_, but then logic kicked in, and he realized that if Antonio was actually having the best night of his life, he probably wouldn't be calling Francis at three o'clock in the morning.

"Actually, I do really need to take this. Sorry, _ma cherie_," the Frenchman apologized, untangling himself from the bed-sheets as smoothly as he could, under the circumstances (the circumstances being a surprisingly strong girl hanging off of him and attempting to pull him back into bed, or perhaps just fondling his backside—both were nice, but not appreciated at the moment.)

"_Allo_?" he said, trying not to sound irritated.

"Francis, thank God you picked up, I need help, I don't know what to do, I—" stammered the voice of an extremely panicked Spaniard on the other end.

Well. Not the best night of his life, then.

"What is it, Tonio?" Francis asked. "I'm sort-of preoccupied at the moment."

"It's Lovi!" Antonio practically wailed. "He ran and hid in his room, and he said he was sorry but he couldn't, and he looked like he was about to cry, and I don't know what to dooo!"

Francis considered the issue currently plaguing him: on the one hand, one of his best friends was having a mental breakdown, and in severe need of comfort and advice; on the other hand, he had a lovely girl in his bed, begging for sex.

Antonio was his friend, yes, but … Sex.

"Look, you can tell me all about it tomorrow, and we can come up with a brilliant plan to fix things," Francis said urgently into the phone, hoping to make this conversation as quick as possible, "but I really do need to go, so I'll just say this: right now, you need to leave Lovino alone. Give him his space. Leave a note somewhere, maybe, telling him that you love him, something comforting like that so that he doesn't think you gave up on him, but don't bother him, or he'll just get more angry with you."

"Okay," Antonio replied, his voice cracking on the end of the word. "I think I can do that. But he seems so sad, and so lonely … Are you sure I can't just go and hug him?"

"He probably locked the door," the Frenchman answered, cracking a small smile at his friend's kind nature. "So I wouldn't recommend it. But tell me this: did he keep the rose?"

"_Sí_. Why, is that important?"

Aha! Score one for the Spaniard. "Yes, _mon ami_, it is. It means that there's hope."

And with that final message, Francis hung up.

"Who was that?" asked the girl—Jenna, he remembered now—stretching out her arms and beaming at him, happy now that she had him all to herself.

He shrugged, putting a perfect, gentlemanly smile into place on his lips. "Just a friend of mine, having some love trouble. Not all of us could be as lucky tonight as I am, _ma cherie_."

_I would, if I could. I'd do anything, spontaneously.  
_

When Antonio walked—no, not walked, trudged—no, not trudged, no word can really describe how truly depressing his manner of transporting his body was at that particular moment—into Francis' and Gillian's apartment the next morning, every inch of his body looked as though it was screaming, "My heart is broken, so I require a hug! A nice, comforting one, and swift-like!"

Being good friends (and, in general, people with souls, because nobody would have wanted to see Antonio like that), Francis and Gil obliged, engulfing their friend in a bear hug so tight, it left him gasping for breath afterwards. Following that platonic display of affection, Francis sat Antonio down on the couch, and Gil brought him some comfort tomatoes.

"So, what happened?" Francis asked, genuinely concerned—the plan had seemed perfect, so what had gone wrong?

"Well," the Spaniard began, "I got the rose, and wrote the note, and ran ahead home to put it on the doorstep of our apartment so that Lovi would find it when he got home. Then, I went inside and set everything up the way you told me to, with …"

The other two-thirds of the Bad Touch Trio listened attentively for a minute while Antonio described the precise way he had set the apartment up to be especially romantic for Lovino's arrival, and then, finally, Gillian could not take it any more.

"Come on, Tonio, we don't care about that part!" she told him sternly. "That is not awesome. Well, neither is what happened next, but at least that's interesting, unlike the precise pattern you arranged the candles into or whatever the hell it was you were going on about."

Antonio, who had genuinely never realized that candle arranging wasn't a subject fascinating to every living person on the planet, apologized and went on. "Well … Anyway … So there I was, sitting in the middle of everything, really nervous for when Lovino got there. I tried to plan out what I would say, but it always came out sounding wrong in my head, and … And, well, basically, it was really stressful. Then, at last, after hours and hours and hours, I heard the door opening, and Lovino stepped in." He paused to catch his breath.

"_Oui?_ And?" Francis pressed.

"And … I just don't know what happened," Antonio admitted, shaking his head as though he was just as baffled by Lovinio's behavior now than he had been the night before (which, as he was Spanish, was entirely possible.) "I mean, at first, the look on his face was soft and nice and I thought maybe he would say yes, but then I saw that his cheeks were wet, like he'd been crying, and he started saying that he was sorry, but he couldn't, and he went and locked himself in his room and … And he still hasn't come out, or said anything more to me."

"Did you try to talk to him?" Gil asked.

"Well, I did, a little, just to try and figure out what was going on," the Spaniard replied, "but then I called Francis and asked for his advice, and he said to leave Lovi alone, so I just did that … Even though I really didn't want to … It seemed like he was so lonely, and sad, and I hate it when people are lonely and sad, especially when those people include Lovi …"

He buried his head in his hands, feeling helpless and hopeless. Of course, Antonio didn't have any real experience in dating—he had no idea what to do in this situation—why had he ever thought Lovino would love him, anyway …

"Oi, Tonio," Gillian said sharply.

Antonio raised his head for a second to peek at her incredulously. "_Que_?"

"Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You're awesome, and you're going to win yourself a Lovino, so you have no reason to be sad."

"I don't?" the Spaniard asked, not really believing her.

"No, you don't," Francis agreed. "You are going to woo Lovino Vargas as he has never been wood before, and he is going to like it."

"I'm going to … woo him? But what if he doesn't want to be wooed?"

"Well, he kept the rose, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but what does that—"

"It means that he does want to be wooed. More than he knows."

_Or we can keep chilling like ice cream filling,  
We can be cool in the gang if you'd rather hang,  
Ain't no thing. I can be lugubrious with you.  
_

Antonio was gone, so it was safe for Lovino to emerge from his room—which was good, because he was hungry, and there were some leftover brownies on the counter with his name on them.

Of course, he couldn't just eat them in peace, because the moment he stepped into the kitchen, he was greeted by a note on the refrigerator door:

_Dear Lovino,_

_I'm sorry I had to leave—I need to go over to Francis' and Gil's place for a bit for something. I didn't want to go while you were still mad at me, but Francis said it was best to leave you in peace, so that was what I did. I hope that was okay._

_See, Lovi, I really do want you to be … I don't know the right words for it. My boyfriend? Lover? Partner? Significant other person? That doesn't sound quite right._

_I just wish that you were mine. And I don't mean that in a creepy, possessive way; I just mean that I wish I had permission to hug you all of the time, and kiss you all of the time, and make you smile, and make you laugh, and that I was the only person to see who you really are._

_I've never really loved before, Lovino, but I want to learn how to love with you. Does that make sense?_

_I hope it does._

_I hope you feel the same way._

_- Antonio_

Lovino ripped the scrap of paper off of the door and crumpled it into a ball, ready to crush it, or perhaps tear it into a thousand pieces—but something stopped him, and he ended up folding it back out, smoothing it, creasing it, almost lovingly putting it back together.

He read it again, then a third time, and finally, almost without realizing he was doing it, folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

Oh, he was _so_ fucked.

_Let's get set then, to go then, and let us jet set we'll be like the jetsons,  
You can be Jane, my wife. Should I marry Jane tonight?  
_

Antonio returned home to find that Lovino was nowhere to be seen—but the note was gone. He decided to take this as a good sign (sure, maybe Lovi wasn't ready to face him yet, but all in good time, and the fact that he'd taken the note meant that he liked it) and an invitation to place a couple more notes around the apartment. After a trip to the nearby grocery store, these notes were accompanied by tomatoes and a few little drawings of Antonio and Lovino that the Spaniard was very proud of.

It wasn't Valentine's Day any more, but it was never too late for romantic bribery. Lovino would definitely like this.

_I got no if's and's or's, no wits or what's about it,  
But this place is getting crowded and my house is two blocks away,  
Or maybe closer.  
_

Lovino Vargas had always believed that a good, long walk would help him solve any major, life-changing problems that might come up.

As he wandered through downtown Philadelphia on a chilly morning in February, he was starting to question that belief.

More specifically, he had been walking for three hours, and yet he still had no solution to the Antonio Dilemma; he had no idea what to do. Should he just flat-out tell Antonio that he wasn't looking for a relationship, clearly define it so that they could forget the whole thing? He should, that much was clear. But then he'd have to see that heartbreaking look in the Spaniard's eyes again … Plus, _would_ they forget the whole thing? Antonio was determined, damn the bastard, and he wouldn't give up on Lovino, and Lovino would have to keep telling him no even though it would get harder every time because he _did_ want the same things Antonio did, God help him … And wouldn't that just be _absolutely wonderful_ for their friendship?

_Argh_. Lovino dropped down onto a stone bench in the park he'd wandered into and let his head fall into his hands.

He didn't know what to do, and there was nobody he could ask for help, nobody he could call, not even Felicia, who was usually his confidante in all things.

She'd just tell Lovino that he should accept Antonio's advances, love him, and be happy—he knew that. But he also knew that she didn't understand—she had a happy, perfect relationship, because she was a good person who deserved it, but Lovino … Antonio might want him now, but after a couple of weeks of dating, he'd tire of Lovino and his horrible personality, the same way Sadiq had … It would be better, less painful, to not even try …

But, the problem was, how could Lovino convince Antonio of that?

He was an optimist, curse him. He'd want to try anyway. He'd come up with reasons, he'd sing songs, he'd smile at Lovino as though he was worth something … He'd remind Lovino of the night they had kissed …

Lovino couldn't do it. He couldn't face Antonio. That was it.

He'd just have to ignore Antonio until he gave up.

Lovino stood and walked back to the apartment, determined to keep down the pain. He might not be good at much, but pain was something he knew how to deal with.

_If you could be nimble, you'd have it simple just like me.  
So go on and try it, do not deny yourself your freedom._

Unfortunately for Lovino, a certain romantically-minded Spaniard didn't make that plan easy.

He really didn't give up, and somehow seemed to find Lovino's avoidance further encouragement to keep trying. Every day, Lovino would find tomatoes in the apartment … Flowers hidden in strategic places … Endearing little drawings folded in between ingredients in the cabinets … Notes with sweet things stuck to mirrors, doors, windows, kitchen appliances …

_Lovino, I think the little curl in your hair is really cute._

_Lovino, you should smile more. You look nicer when you're smiling. :)_

_Lovino, you're the best waiter at _Il Stomaco Felice_. You always remember everyone's orders and get them quickly, and you're good at dealing with the problematic customers, even though you complain about them afterwards._

_Lovino, I think you're really kind and generous, even though you don't openly show it. You're modest about it, and I love that._

_Lovino, I think about New Year's Eve all of the time. It was one of the best nights of my life._

(This one made Lovino's cheeks go pink in a record 0.02 seconds, and he put the note in his sock drawer.)

_Lovino, I sometimes wonder what your bare skin would feel like, pressed against mine late at night_.

(Lovino highly suspected Francis had encouraged that one.)

_Lovino, sometimes I look at you and I am overcome, suddenly, with desire for you—like I want you so badly, it hurts._

(And this one just killed Lovino inside, because it was a depressingly accurate description of what he felt for Antonio.)

The bastard didn't just leave messages, either—sometimes, he even had the nerve to write Lovino poetry. _Poetry_! This particular wooing method was so exasperating (it wasn't even romantically exhilarating, not even a little, shut up) that the Italian actually felt the need to confront his infuriating roommate about it:

"Oi, _idiota_, stop leaving me poetry! I'm not a fucking girl, damn it!"

"But, Lovi, it isn't poetry, it's song lyrics," the Spaniard replied, glad that Lovino was finally acknowledging his advances (even if it was only to yell at him for them.)

Lovino simply glowered. "Song lyrics are a form of poetry, you ass."

Impressed by this stunning display of logical reasoning, Antonio decided to lay off on the lyrics for a little bit—but that didn't mean he couldn't keep working on the song they were part of.

_Now did you know, this is limited time offer.  
So go make your mind, up before our time's up,  
You better start winding it up, because the party's almost over.  
_

"So, Tonio, how's the song going?" Gillian asked before work one afternoon in late February. "It's been a couple weeks—I thought you would've been done by now."

Antonio sighed. "Yeah, but I want it to be _perfect_," he explained, adjusting the levels on his amp.

"I'm pretty sure Lovino will like whatever you do," she assured him.

"If he likes whatever I do, then why hasn't any of this stuff worked yet?" the Spaniard asked, not seeming very convinced.

"He's just …" The Prussian girl tried to think of the best way to phrase it. "He was really traumatized, and he's afraid of getting hurt again, that's all."

"But if that's it … Surely I've done enough by now that he'd be convinced to go out with me? I've tried everything I can think of, and he just ignores me … Things were better before I admitted I have feelings for him, really," Antonio said, feeling dejected.

"So what're you going to do about it, then?" Gil wanted to know.

"I don't know, honestly," the singer admitted. He remembered all of the times Lovino had yelled at him, all of the times he'd swore, all of the times he'd frowned, and he wondered where he was getting the idea that the Italian reciprocated his affections. "I'm starting to think maybe it's hopeless, and I should just give up."

"No."

Startled, the two present members of the Bad Touch Trio turned around to find Matt standing next to the bar, glaring at them with an anger rarely present when he was sober.

"No, you can't give up, Antonio," the Canadian continued. "Giving up would be like admitting that you'll never be happy, and you can't just do that. I mean, if I had done that, when I thought that Gil would never see me as more than a friend, would I be where I am now? No, probably not. Lovino does like you, I'm sure of it, and he _does_ believe in love—he encouraged me to go after you that night, Gil, did you know that?—but he doesn't believe in it for himself. But you can change that, Antonio, you can help him realize that he deserves to be happy, just like everyone else. You just can't give up on him, because then he'll give up on everything, and … And yeah, that would suck," Matt finished lamely, the passion draining out of his speech with its close.

Antonio still found the speech inspiring, though; Lovino _would_ love him. He had smiled at Antonio before, he had stood up for Antonio's playing, and, hell, he had taken Antonio in from the streets when he hadn't even known who Antonio was. That said something. There was potential there.

"Actually, I think I'll play the song tonight," the Spaniard found himself saying.

Matt grinned. "Good—_AAH_!"

There was a Gillian attached to his waist, and it didn't seem to have any intention of moving.

"You're so cute and perfect and lovely and wonderful oh my God Mattie that was such a great speech you're so cute when you're passionate about stuff I'm so glad you didn't give up on me—"

Then again, Matt didn't particularly mind …

_Go make your next choice be your best choice,  
And if you're looking for a boy with a voice, well baby I'm single._

At first, it was a pretty typical night at the restaurant for Lovino: serving tables and pasting on a fake smile and exaggerating his Italian accent just a little bit to flirt with the pretty girls, and then suddenly, Antonio was telling everyone that he'd written this next song for someone special and it suddenly wasn't a typical night any more.

Lovino told himself that he shouldn't really be shocked any more that there was a Spanish idiot writing songs for him and performing them in front of a crowd of strangers (it had happened before, after all) but the shock and embarrassment factor hadn't seemed to have worn off yet. The part of Lovino that hated the world and everyone in it wanted to run away screaming and crying that he couldn't face anyone ever again, but at the same time, some other part of him (a small part, but a powerful part nonetheless) was urging him to stay and listen.

It was a simple song, a sweet song, about how Antonio would do anything to impress the one he loved. It was the sort of song that girls liked because they could imagine that their boyfriends were singing it to them, even though Antonio probably hadn't had any intention of that while writing it.

And Lovino … Wasn't really sure of what he thought about it.

At first, he just told himself that it was another stupid Antonio thing, just ignore it and it'll go away, but then he remembered everything that Antonio had been doing: all of the notes, the flowers, the stupid drawings …

He really had been trying his hardest.

He was such a kind-hearted person, a person with a sun inside him shining with light that hit all of the people who came into contact with him, and Lovino was breaking his heart by rejecting him, just to prevent possible future pain.

Did he really deserve that?

…

When Antonio returned home from the restaurant that night, Lovino was already in his room, in bed, but there was one change: the door was unlocked and open.

It was only open a little bit, but there was enough room for Antonio to stick his head in and whisper, "Hey, Lovi, you awake?"

"I am now, thanks to you," came the answering grumble.

"Did you like the song?"

"The one you said you wrote for me?"

"Yeah."

"I suppose … It was like everything else you've been doing, really."

"Is that good or bad, though?"

"Well … In some ways, it's nice, but mostly, it just seems …"

"What?"

"Superficial. That's the word. Superficial."

"Why?"

"Because … Stop asking me hard questions, bastard!"

"But I need to know!"

"Oh, fine. But this is it, because I'm tired. Everything you've been doing is too superficial—it's all notes and flowers, songs and poems, nice things. Lots of things. Things can help you persuade someone, but if you really want to win them over, you have to stop with the things and just use ideas. That's where the power is. Now go away."

"I … Yeah. Sorry. Going away now. Goodnight."

Antonio padded quietly into his own room, thinking about Lovino had said. Stop with the things, and just use ideas. But how could he do that?

He considered texting Gil and Francis to ask for their advice, but something—some impulse in the back of his mind, or maybe in his heart—told him that this was something that he had to do by himself.

The proudest accomplishments are those you accomplish on your own.

Antonio was already writing a new song.

Meanwhile, in his room, on the verge of falling asleep, Lovino realized that he'd just told Antonio exactly how to persuade him to give the prospect of a relationship a chance.

Why had he done that?

What the honest fuck …?

_I'll do anything, spontaneously._


	17. A Beautiful Mess

**Finally, a truly happy chapter. I hope you guys like it. (Although, a slight warning: I was sort-of falling asleep while finishing this up just now, so if some parts don't quite make sense, that's probably why.)**

**In other news, in the ongoing soap opera that is my life (haha no who am I kidding, my life isn't exciting enough to be a soap opera, more like a badly written sitcom), I asked out the guy I have a crush on. He friend-zoned me, and then asked me if I wanted to go to prom. With him. As friends. **

**Yeah, that's my life. *sobs quietly in a corner***

**But hey, at least I get to go on a band trip next week. (Yay for April break. xD) Oh, and also, I have a job interview tomorrow to be a counselor at a summer camp. (It's on 4/13, so I'm going to read Homestuck before the interview and hope it brings me luck.)**

**OH. AND. ALSO. So the other day, I was waiting outside my history classroom for my teacher to come unlock the door, and I saw him talking with another history teacher. So a third teacher walked by and casually slapped the second teacher on the butt. The guy who got slapped DIDN'T EVEN REACT, like it was something that happened all of the time. I started laughing, which the third history teacher noticed. He looked at me, said, "What? I touched the butt," and then walked away. I was just, like, UM HELLO NEW OTP NICE TO MEET YOU.**

**And now that I've bored you with my unnecessarily long A/N … Just go enjoy the chapter. :)**

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**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES**

**17. A Beautiful Mess**

_You've got the best of both worlds,  
You're the kind of girl who can take down a man,  
And lift him back up again._

Arthur was about to get to the smut. Seriously, why did things always have to happen right when he was about to get to the smut?

And it was such a cute fic, too—nothing long or unwieldy, just a cute fic about Ten, Jack, and Donna adventuring in the TARDIS and Donna using her brilliant matchmaker skills to get them to release their sexual tension—that he hated to stop reading, especially when he was _about to get to the smut._

But on the other hand … Arthur didn't usually get texted late at night, and what if it was something important? It couldn't be something about Amelia—she was right here, her head pressed into his shoulder, golden hair spilling across her face, and he took a moment to appreciate her beauty, here, next to him, fully his before he continued thinking—but what if it was something about his other friends, or something about work, or … If nothing else, the curiosity would prevent him from being able to read properly.

Sighing quietly in annoyance (so as not to wake his wife), the Brit switched apps on his phone to check his messages. It was from … Lovino, of all people. Hmm. Interesting.

_I know I shouldn't be talking to you, since everyone thinks you're a traitor for going over to the Nordics, but this is kinda important._

Lovino had sent him a message, late at night, and hadn't sworn at all in it. Clearly, something was up.

Of course, Arthur had other things on the mind besides Lovino's problems.

_Yeah, I really don't get why that is_, he wrote. _I mean, I wouldn't have taken the job at the Nordic Café if I hadn't been so rudely fired by you wankers._

It was playing the guilt card, he knew, but—much as he hated to admit it, even to himself—the Brit missed working at _Il Stomaco Felice_. He missed his coworkers and the ease with which they teased each other, laughing and joking through their shifts. They had been his friends, and they'd been taken away from him just because Antonio happened to be the better singer. And okay, maybe Antonio was the better singer, but Arthur could still get his friends back, right?

His phone dinged, interrupting his inner turmoil.

_I know. I'm sorry. But that isn't the point._

Ah, so now Arthur got to find out the reason for Lovino's urgent text. Well, this was interesting—the trying-to-get-his-friends-back could wait.

_What _is_ the point, then?_ he wrote. _And please be quick. I was just getting to the good part in the fanfic I was reading_.

The reply was a little slow in coming:

_Okay, well, the point is … Antonio._

Oh, God. Antonio.

_What about him? He's stupid and annoying and smiles too much!_

_True, but …_

The dreaded "true, but." Arthur recognized that "true, but." Those were the words of a defensive man admitting that he just maybe a little liked someone that way.

_Oh, God. I see where this is going, and I don't like it._

_He asked me out on Valentine's Day_, Lovino's message read in response.

Asking out Lovino, on Valentine's Day. That was a bit … ballsy.

_Huh, so he is a _little_ braver than I thought._

_And I rejected him, but he hasn't given up yet. He kept leaving me gifts and shit all over the apartment, and serenading me, and all of this romantic crap._

Who'd've known Antonio could be such a romantic? This complicated things, at least in Arthur's opinion of the Spaniard.

_Well, I'm conflicted,_ he wrote. _On the one hand, if he's doing all of that for you, he must really like you, so you should go out with him. But, on the other hand … It's _Antonio.

_You forgot the fact that I can't get into a serious relationship ever again_, Lovino replied.

Huh?

_Why do you say that?_

_Hello? The whole … Sadiq … thing?_

Oh, that crap. How had Lovino not gotten over that by now?

_Just because you had one bad experience doesn't mean you should give up._

_But you don't understand—you have a happy life. That whole terrible thing was my fault. I fuck everything up. If I let Antonio close enough, I'll fuck him up, and not in a good way, so I just … can't._

And now Lovino was feeling sorry for himself. This was just brilliant. As a friend, Arthur could not let this continue.

_That's a load of crap if I ever heard one. It wasn't your fault—Sadiq was a lying, manipulative arse. You deserve happiness as much as the next guy. If you think Antonio will help you be happy, give him a chance, for God's sake. It won't kill you. _

_And for the record, _Arthur added as a last thought, _I think you two are just stupid enough for each other. Now I'm out—the Great Gods of Slash are calling to me._

The Brit almost laughed out loud at Lovino's confused response: _But … he's … I mean …_

But he actually did want to get back to the fanficiton, so he wrote, _Slash, Lovino. SLASH. Talk to me again when you've admitted you're being a complete idiot._

Satisfied with his friendship skills, Arthur went back to his fanfic. It wasn't until finishing it that he realized that he'd completely forgotten to further the mission to get himself accepted in _Il Stomaco Felice_ once again.

Oh, well. The opportunity would present itself again later.

_And "kind and courteous" is a life I've heard,  
But it's nice to say that we played in the dirt.  
'Cause here, here we are, here we are._

The next morning, when Lovino stumbled into the bathroom, exhausted after texting Arthur until the wee hours of the morning, he found yet another note stuck to the bathroom mirror:

_Lovino,_

_I thought about what you said last night—about not using things, and just using ideas. So I'm going to stop leaving you little presents around the apartment, and start trying to persuade you to give us a try by just being there, talking to you._

_I haven't really been a friend to you these past few weeks, and I miss that. So I'd like to try that again, and I'll hold off on the persuasion for a bit._

_Don't think that means I've given up on you, though—I won't give up on us._

_Antonio_

And then, later, they walked to work together, the way they had always used to, and when they had passed the park, Antonio had jumped up on top of one of the stone fences and walked along it, holding his arms out for balance, and, laughing, Lovino had followed, and they had felt five years old and on top of the world, and Antonio had turned back for a second and _looked_ at Lovino as though this was all he wanted in life and—

_God_, was Lovino screwed.

But somehow, he managed to hold it in. Lovino managed to keep his feelings bottled up in the bottom of his heart (and, really, he should be a pro at it by now) as he and Antonio resumed what had previously been a normal life for them: the casual banter, the ease with which they understood each other, the occasional unintentional touches that lingered a little too long to be natural—and really, how had they lived without this for a couple of weeks?

Lovino wasn't an idiot, except for the one place it really mattered.

_Although you were biased, I love your advice.  
Your comebacks __‒__ they're quick,  
And probably have to do with your insecurities.  
_

"Lovi!" Antonio shouted one morning as they made their way to work.

Lovino yanked an earbud out of his ear (and he had just gotten to the epic guitar solo, too!) to glare angrily at his stupid roommate. "What?"

"Look!" The Spaniard gestured at his head, upon which was perched the most abominable item of clothing Lovino had ever seen (and that included the neon, mis-matched outfits Gillian had taken to during their high school years.)

"_What _the _actual fuck_ is that?" the Italian asked, after a moment spent recovering from the shock of merely seeing such a disgusting object.

"It's a hat!" Antonio replied proudly.

"It's not a hat," Lovino told him, with all of the snobbish airs of a gay man born and raised (at least partially) in Italy. "It looks like something a rabid dog threw up, shit on, buried in the back yard for five years, and then dug out in order to use as a chew toy."

Antonio pouted, saddened by this unfortunate description. "But I _like_ it~! And besides, I've always wanted a cool, singery hat. Like … you know … Cool, singery people …"

"If you want to get a cool, singery hat," Lovino said (singery? what did that even mean?), "go ahead. But get something nice. Designer. Italian. _Not from the fucking sewer_."

"Only if you help me pick one out," the Spaniard decided, with an air of (undeserved) victory.

Lovino weighed his options: shopping with Antonio v.s. the abominable curse of nature. Oh, well, sometimes you just have to pick the lesser of two evils.

_Your style is quite selective,  
Though your mind is rather reckless.  
Well I guess it just suggests,  
That this is just what happiness is.  
_

And that was how Antonio and Lovino ended up perusing the most snobbish stores in Philadelphia one lovely Sunday afternoon.

"What do you think of this one?" Antonio asked, holding up a wide-brimmed straw hat for Lovino's judgment.

The Italian shook his head. "No, too summer-y. You need something that will work in all seasons."

"Okay, then, what about that?" He pointed at a green cap.

"Nah, too old-fashioned," came the quick dismissal.

"Or that?"

"Too fancy."

"Or this?"

"Too … Shiny."

"Or, ooh, this one?"

"Are you kidding? That'll fall apart in three days, max."

"Loviii, why are you so picky?" Antonio whined. He had only wanted to buy a hat—one hat! One simple hat!—but Lovino had turned it into this whole excursion, and it was starting to get exasperating.

The Italian sighed and explained, "Because, idiot, if I just let you pick whichever hat you wanted, you'd grab the first one you saw, immediately fall in love with it, and then end up losing it or breaking it or discarding it like an unwanted puppy in a couple of weeks. Nobody likes unwanted puppies."

"I guess that's true," the Spaniard admitted.

"See? My logic makes sense," Lovino said proudly. "Now, how about this hat? It's both durable and stylish." He held up a woolen beanie.

But Antonio was no longer paying attention, because, on the other side of the store, he had spotted the perfect hat. "_Lovi,_" he breathed, "_that's it_."

Lovino followed his gaze, and—_oh_. It was. Of course it was.

Of course Antonio had picked a fedora. Honestly, that should have been their first option.

_Through timeless words and priceless pictures,  
We'll fly like birds not of this earth._

"Hey, Lovi, what're you going to do for your birthday?"

All eyes immediately gravitated to Lovino as he, Antonio, Gillian, Matt, Francis, Felicia, and Louise walked out of the movie theater after seeing a particularly epic action movie (about some guy who had … done something … epic and action-worthy? It had been a pretty confusing movie.)

"He's going to have a massive party with tons of strippers," Gillian said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"You keep saying that, but it's not going to fucking happen," Lovino grumbled, shooting a glare in her direction.

The Prussian girl shrugged. "Eh, a girl can hope. You never know—someday, you might wake up and think, damn, I really do want strippers at my birthday party this year, and you'll be glad I slipped you that stripper hotline number the other day."

"You _what_?!" the Italian squawked.

Gil collapsed into laughter. "Your _face_, Lovi, oh, my God …"

"Wait." Antonio suddenly stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and stared at his friends. "Lovino's birthday is soon?"

"Yeah, it's in two weeks, didn't you know that?" Francis replied.

From the look of excitement on his face, Antonio clearly hadn't known.

"Lovi, I'm gonna give you the best present _ever_~!" he shouted, giving the Italian a surprise hug to accentuate his exclamation.

"I was purposefully—trying to—not have you find out—so that this—wouldn't happen," Lovino managed to choke out in between enthusiastic squeezes.

Antonio didn't pay attention—he was too busy trying to decide on the perfect gift.

_You are strong but you're needy,  
Humble but you're greedy,  
And based on your body language,  
And shoddy cursive I've been reading.  
_

_Lovino Romano Vargas._

Antonio surveyed his work so far: Lovino's name, written in large, bold letters at the top of a yellow legal pad. This was something. This was a start. This would help him figure out what he could give Lovino for his birthday so that the Italian would finally (_finally_) admit his feelings for him.

It was a start, but it wasn't much else. Antonio had never been very good at planning, whether it was an essay, the best way to get from one street to another, or his future, and his brain wasn't about to switch gears now. Every time he picked up the pencil, his mind went completely blank. The page was so daunting—so empty, with so many lines to be filled up with words that he didn't have!

It was terrifying, honestly. Antonio had no idea how people used these things.

After fifteen minutes of good, hard thought, all he had to show for himself was a couple of doodles of tomatoes. Granted, there was nothing wrong with tomatoes. Everybody liked tomatoes … _Lovino_ liked tomatoes …

_What else does Lovino like?_

His Vespa, good quality clothes, photography, an afternoon spent in the park, music that was soft and sad and then suddenly loud and furious, a bottle of old, Italian wine, _Les Miserables_, his friends, _Il Stomaco Felice_, laughter, the colors red and green …

That was an easy question—Antonio could think of a thousand answers. But then, a harder one popped into his mind: _What _is_ Lovino like?_

Private—he didn't like to share himself with other people. Generous—he always put the needs of others first. Kind—he had taken Antonio in when he barely knew the man. Strong—he didn't let the words of others define his personality. Needy—without others to remind him that he was important, he would crumble. Humble—he would be the last one to admit that he was worthy of anything. Greedy—he always wanted attention from those around him, even though he didn't think he deserved it. Lovely—he blushed and smiled and stuttered and that made him adorable. Determined—once he put his mind to something, he would see it through.

Perfect. At least, to Antonio.

And just like that, the page was full, and Antonio had the first verse of a new song forming in his head.

_Well, it kind of hurts when the kind of words you write,  
Kind of turn themselves into knives._

_And don't mind my nerve, you could call it fiction,  
But I like being submerged in your contradictions, dear.  
'Cause here we are, here we are.  
_

The thing about home is that, sometimes, it's so goddamned hard to find, because you can't tell that you've found it until you've lost it.

Antonio and Lovino plopped down on their couch with equal sighs of exhaustion. That morning, they had needed to scour Little Italy to find one specific type of olive that _literally no shop_ had carried, just because Francis was determined to make a certain special dish or something and only that one type would do. They had spent hours carefully checking the supplies of every store, examining the olives for that one brand, and slowly getting more and more aggravated—well, for Antonio, it was a slow process; for Lovino, it had been more of a quick burn.

Eventually, they had settled for something with a name that started with the same letter and sort-of almost rhymed, and hoped that Francis wouldn't notice. And now, here they were, back in the apartment, mentally and physically exhausted … And they both needed to work in a couple of hours.

The restaurant business was torturous sometimes, really.

Lovino flicked on the TV, and, too lazy to change channels, let it settle on some unbearably cliché romantic comedy, and leaned back on the couch, wishing he could just fall asleep. Not for a long time or anything, mind you—he just needed a bit of a nap, to recover his strength and stop thinking about goddamned olives …

Antonio didn't mind the movie. He wouldn't readily admit it, but he had a weakness for romantic comedies, even the cliché ones. So, he (unlike his roommate) was actually paying attention and failed to notice the head resting on his shoulder until it was too late, and Lovino was already dozing on him, nestled into his shoulder like a key into a lock.

Not that Antonio objected to this, or anything. He loved the way Lovino looked while he slept—peaceful and satisfied, with a nice little smile on his face instead of an irritated pout. He wasn't swearing at anyone, and he wasn't feeling sorry for himself, and he wasn't worrying about anything.

He was just … being.

Antonio was no longer paying attention to the movie, that was for sure. He watched Lovino's slow breaths in and out, in and out like a young child trying to learn about something he doesn't understand.

He wondered what it would be like to feel this every night—to fall asleep with Lovino in his arms and then wake up like that in the morning, with the sunlight bathing Lovino's face in a soft light and a content smile on his face and a kind look in his eyes and …

"Oi, bastard, what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Um … You sort-of … Uh … Fell asleep on me," the Spaniard explained lamely.

His roommate, only just then realizing that the whole awkward pillow situation was his own damn fault, promptly turned the color of a fire hydrant and moved far enough over that several concrete walls could fit between him and Antonio.

"Well, then, why did you let me?" Lovino countered, after a moment of awkward silence. "You make a terrible pillow, you jerk! You should've known better than to let anyone use your stupid shoulder for a pillow to sleep on! Why the fuck didn't you think about that, huh? Why the fuck …"

The ranting would probably go on for at least another few minutes, Antonio knew.

But that was okay, because he had thought of a new verse.

_Here we are, here we are.  
We're still here._

The moon was starting to think that she was not as great a ruler as she once had been.

As a fair and just queen, she should not show favor to any one of her subjects, or spend too much time guarding one particular area above others, or shine brighter in a certain spot. And yet, there was something about that man …

Every night, for the past two weeks, she had found this man, his eyes bright and wild, standing on top of a stone fence in a small park in the middle of Philadelphia, stretching his arms wide and singing to the stars. He didn't seem to be seeking any particular audience, but the moon enjoyed pausing in her normal surveillance routine, resting on that park, and listening to the song.

She wasn't sure what the man was singing about—something about a beautiful mess, and that he was still here—and she didn't quite understand it, but she understood his need to practice alone, in the middle of the night, when nobody could see him. She, the lonely guardian, knew more than anyone else that some songs are not meant to be shared—at least, not until they are ready.

Because the man was clearly getting ready for something. As the days wore on, his practices became more urgent, more important. She heard muttering in between the melodious sounds of the song—the singer was critiquing himself, trying to figure out the best way to fix some perceived problem or other.

The moon wanted to help him. She knew that it was wrong, but she had taken a liking to this strange and beautiful man who sang for her even if he didn't know she was listening. She gave him a little bit of extra light, and with it, some of her heart—the huge heart that cared for every living being in her kingdom of shadows and stars.

And then, one night, after finishing his song, the man cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted up at the sky, his body gleaming softly in the moonlight like a statue from ancient Greece.

"God, or gods, or someone, I know you're up there. I believe someone exists, up there in the sky or the heavens, and that someone is watching—not in a creepy way, but like a benevolent guardian, keeping tabs on all of the living creatures down here on the ground. I don't believe that you, whoever you are, care about me in particular, and that's okay, but … If you're listening at all, could you please at least hear me out, for a little bit?"

_I'm listening_, the moon thought, shocked and intrigued by this man's faith.

"So, here's the thing," the singer continued, "tomorrow is Lovino's birthday. He's going to be a year older, but it won't make him any happier. But I think I can make him happier. The song that I've been practicing, this whole time, is for him. I want him to see that I love him, really love him, and won't get tired of him or leave him or any of the other stupid things he seems to think will happen.

"Lovino is amazing. I could go on about his virtues—I even made a list—but I won't. I'll just say that I love his virtues, but more than that, I love every single one of his vices, because to me, they are what makes him perfect. The problem is, he doesn't see that.

"I want him to try experiencing what love can be like, with me. I want us to do that together. And that can't happen until he sees himself through my eyes—sees how amazing he is.

"So what I'm asking of you, is, I guess … A little help. I don't need a miracle or anything. I could just use a little courage, and Lovino could use a little understanding. So if there's someone up there hearing me right now, that's all I ask. Please.

"And if that isn't granted … I'll try my best. Because, see, the thing is, although I believe in gods, I believe more in myself. And with that, I think I have a good chance of succeeding."

With that last line, the man stepped down off of the fence and walked, shoulders held high, back to his apartment.

_He doesn't need any courage_, the moon thought, _but I'll see what I can do about the understanding_.

And she was filled with a strange sort of pride for this strange sort of man, who was so determined to convince another person of his worth, but seemed ignorant of his own.

_There's no shame in being crazy,  
Depending on how you take these,  
Words that we're paraphrasing, this relationship we're staging.  
_

Lovino had expected Antonio to give him something stupid and cheesy for his birthday. He had expected flowers, or chocolates, or tomatoes, or tomato-shaped chocolates, or chocolate-shaped tomatoes, or something else equally romantic and idiotic.

He hadn't expected the present he got.

"It's a friendship bracelet," Antonio explained animatedly as he tied the object around Lovino's wrist. "I made it myself. I know, it kind-of sucks, but I did use your favorite colors, so …" He looked up at Lovino nervously, unsure what his friend's reaction would be.

"Of course, you _would_ make me something normally made by at summer camps by middle-school-aged girls," Lovino remarked—but Antonio knew that was a compliment.

"Check out the card," the Spaniard said, beaming. "I made it myself."

The card in question depicted Antonio and Lovino dressed as tomatoes, with a bunch of smaller tomatoes added for decoration. Lovino couldn't help finding it amusing.

And the slip of paper that fell out of the card … The one folded in half a thousand times … That, Lovino slipped into his pocket to read later.

The later came while Antonio was singing.

Lovino carefully unfolded the paper to find a list of things about him: things he liked, things he didn't like, things about his personality, things Antonio liked about him—which, if this paper was to believed, were basically everything about him.

The Italian stared at the paper in wonder, hardly daring to believe that Antonio's feelings for him—feelings he'd described as stupid and probably unrealistic—were real. All of Lovino's faults … Antonio didn't hate them—he loved them.

And then, Lovino noticed that the Curbside Prophet was singing a new song, and he was staring straight at Lovino. He could have had an audience of ten billion, but he still would have been singing only to Lovino.

And Lovino felt his heart flood.

_Hey, what a beautiful mess this is,  
It's like picking up trash in dresses._

The final unconscious drunk had been thrown out, the final beer gulped, the final table wiped, the final yawn yawned—the bar was closed for the night, its workers free to go home.

But Lovino found himself headed—as if pulled by some sort of unseen force—towards the back storage room where he knew the amps and microphones were kept. His mind argued, protested with his feet, but they would not stop moving forward. And his heart chimed in, saying that he was about to do something long overdue. His mouth began to form words, his face flushed, his curl twisted into a heart shape—his mind had been overruled by his body.

And there it was. The door. It was an ordinary door, as doors go—dull brown wood, ten by four feet, small, circular gold knob—but to that particular angry Italian on that particular March night, it was anything but ordinary.

It was the door separating him and Antonio. Denial and desire. Hate and love. The moon and the sun. Pride and modesty. Blushing and … more blushing. Hidden emotions …

Oh, fuck it, what the hell was he waiting for?

_It's like taking a guess when the only answer is "Yes."_

Antonio hummed to himself as he put the amps, mics, and their cords away as slowly as was humanly possible, waiting, hoping, praying for the timid knock he had been assured would soon come at the door.

It never came.

Instead, the door exploded open with a bang, nearly popped off of its hinges by the force of the small man now standing behind it.

He quivered with emotion and was red all over: red shirt, red face, red arms, red neck, red ears, red heart. More than anything, Antonio wanted to squeeze Lovino, to hug him and kiss him and tell him over and over how adorable he was until he _had_ to believe it—but he had been instructed not to do so.

"Good things come to those who wait, Tonio," Francis had said.

And, indeed, they do.

The sentences were curt, quick—harsh, even, but they still made Antonio happier than he had thought possible.

"Okay, bastard. Fine. I will. I'll go out with you."

And, his mission accomplished, he whirled around, ready to leave—

_No_, Antonio thought. _Not allowed._

He rushed forward and grabbed the nearest part of Lovino that he could reach—his hand.

The moment was frozen in time: a hand grasping another, a red face, wide, golden eyes, happy but determined emerald eyes, a relationship contained in a single second.

Then, as abruptly as he had blasted open the door, Lovino once again turned around—this time not running away, but doing something much more difficult: running _to_.

He enveloped Antonio—his boyfriend, he thought with a strange kind of wonder bordering on possession—in a hug so tight it was nearly suffocating.

"_Gracie_," he whispered into the Spaniard's chest. "That was the best goddamned birthday present I've ever been given in my entire fucking life."

Antonio, in shock, finally found his voice.

"You're welcome, _mi amor_~."

_And we tore our dresses and stained our shirts,  
But it's nice today. Oh, the wait was so worth it._


	18. Bella Luna

**WE SING, WE DANCE, WE EAT TOMATOES**

**18. Bella Luna**

**(A/N is at the end, because I'm sure you all care way more about the story than about my ramblings.)**

* * *

_Mystery the moon,__  
__A hole in the sky,__  
__A supernatural nightlight,__  
__So full but often right._

Lovino's couch was not a new one.

It was older than the apartment, older than any other piece of furniture in the apartment, almost as old as the man himself. The couch was faded—it had been a pretty shade of purple, but through years of use it had grown stained with dirt, water, tomato, coffee, pizza, and life. It had been the first thing Lovino bought for himself after the move to America—after eyeing the rickety, wooden desk in his new room, he had decided that desks were for losers and replaced it with the couch. So this couch had been Lovino's first friend in America, and it was always there for him, willing to let him tell it his problems, get out his anger by punching it, fall asleep in its comforting arms after a late night studying, even have a good cry on its plush shoulder. The couch knew Lovino in a way that no living person could testify to. It was a companion, someone to give guidance in times of stress.

When Antonio entered Lovino's (and the couch's) life, the couch welcomed this strange, happy-go-lucky Spaniard, trying to plump up its cushions and make itself more interesting to look at, compelling to sit on. Antonio was good to the couch—even if he could be a bit careless at times, he always cleaned up his messes afterwards and did his best to not make the same mistake twice—and the couch liked that. It was only a couch, so it couldn't communicate its affection to either of its owners, but it could wish, and it wished (very hard, and very often, since it didn't have much else to do) for them to be happy.

Couches are simple creatures. When there are happy people around them, they're happy, too.

This was certainly true on one particular night in March when the two men entered the apartment with a charged sort of atmosphere around them, as though something had changed, something huge, and neither man was quite sure what to do about it. They kept bumping into each other—just slight touches of hand to hand, arm to arm, hip to hip, followed by Lovino blushing and looking away, or Antonio trying not to smile. They sat on the couch and watched TV, the same as they did most other nights, but neither of them were really watching the screen—they were watching each other, Lovino with furtive glances and Antonio with open, excited gazes.

If the couch had been a person, it would have trembled. It didn't understand human emotion that well, couldn't tell the how or the why, but it could tell when a pair of humans that it knew better than it knew any others were falling in love.

_You are an illuminating anchor,__  
__Of leagues to infinite number.__  
__Crashing waves and breaking thunder,__  
__Tiding the ebb and flows of hunger._

Antonio learned quickly that dating Lovino really wasn't all that different from being friends with him. He still resisted most physical contact, and swore all the time, and pretended to hate Antonio, and all of those other normal Lovino things. There were incidents like this:

"Oi, bastard, stop … Stop that!"

"Why? I just want to hold your hand!"

"But … But … Don't."

"I thought … Since we were going out …"

"But not in public! Not out on the _street_! People will see!"

"That was kind-of the point … Wait, are you saying that you'll hold my hand when we aren't in public?"

"… Fuck you."

(Okay, so maybe that one hadn't turned out so badly, since Lovino had grabbed Antonio's hand that night when they were back home, but still.)

And this:

"Antonio. Antonio, no."

"What did I do?"

"You touched me, you idiot!"

"So? I like touching you! You're cute when your face goes red and—Lo_vi_, what did you do that for?"

"No touching. Touching is bad."

"So I can't do this … Or this … Or this … Or—"

"NO STOP HOW DID YOU KNOW I'M TICKLISH YOU FUCKING BASTARD—"

(Granted, tickling Lovino was probably Antonio's new favorite hobby after that incident, but still.)

And this:

"Hey, Lovi, how do you persuade your hot, passionate, but also a little bit angry and reluctant boyfriend to kiss you?"

"I would try NOT EVEN FUCKING TRYING BASTARD 'CAUSE THAT'LL NEVER WORK."

"It was worth a shot~!"

"NO IT FUCKING WAS NOT."

"Can I have a hint, though?"

"No."

" Just a little one?"

"No."

"Pretty please, with tomatoes on top?"

"No."

"Not even the tomatoes? Dang, Lovi, I guess I'll have to ask Francis, then …"

(Admittedly, that last threat had eventually persuaded Lovino to blushingly stutter out a couple of suggestions, which Antonio fully planned on using, but still.)

And even this:

"Lovino, I have a problem."

"And what is that, bastard?"

"I have this thing, in my pants, and I need your help to make it go away."

"…"

"Um … Is the lack of response a good sign or a bad sign?"

"IT'S A TAKE THAT BACK RIGHT THIS FUCKING SECOND BEFORE I FUCKING KILL YOU SIGN AND WHO THE FUCK EVEN GAVE YOU THAT FUCKING IDEA WAS IT FRANCIS IT WAS FRANCIS WASN'T IT I'M GOING TO MURDER THAT FUCKING ASSHOLE IN HIS FUCKING SLEEP WITH A FUCKING TOILET PLUNGER AND BURN HIS ENTIRE FUCKING PORN COLLECTION, EVEN THE REALLY FUCKING EXPENSIVE ONES THAT HE IMPORTED FROM FUCKING JAPAN—"

"Lovi, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it! You don't have to kill Francis, really!"

"OH, YES I FUCKING DO, YOU JUST TRY AND FUCKING STOP ME, NOTHING STOPS THIS FUCKING BADASS WHEN THERE'S A PAIR OF BALLS IN NEED OF SERIOUS FUCKING DAMAGE—"

(It took a full half hour to persuade Lovino not to murder the perverted Frenchman. And, well, yes, an angry Lovino is an adorable Lovino, but still.)

Because the thing was, Antonio wanted to be a good boyfriend to Lovino. He wasn't entirely sure how the whole thing worked, himself, but he thought that he loved Lovino, Lovino loved him (he hoped), and that was all they needed, right? That, and maybe a little more acknowledgement on the Italian's part, but Antonio was (mostly) confident that it would come in time.

He was aiming to fast-forward a couple of steps, though, by planning an amazing first date for himself and Lovino. Antonio had considered asking his friends for advice about the whole date situation, but the relationship advice they'd given him so far (mostly consisting of bad pick-up lines and "just grab his ass and start making out and it'll all escalate from there") hadn't really worked out, so he had ended up just planning the whole thing on his own. He'd done his research, though—watching romantic comedies, secretly reading romance when Lovino wasn't around, the works—and he thought he was pretty prepared.

Lovino would have no choice but to kiss him after the _indescribably awesome_ evening Antonio had planned.

_May I suggest you get the best,__  
__For nothing less than you and I,__  
__Let's take a chance as this romance is rising over before we lose the lighting._

_To: Lovino  
From: Antonio  
This Sunday, I get off at 5pm and you get off at 7pm. Meet me at our apartment right after your shift ends for the best evening ever—there will be tomatoes~!_

Lovino had meant to get out of _Il Stomaco Felice _without being noticed by his coworkers, he really had. He had used all of the best ninja techniques: wearing dark clothing, not mentioning your plans to anyone, sneaking off in complete silence, carrying a shuriken in your pocket in case of hostile attacks … Well, okay, it was a butter knife, but the thought was there.

The Italian was literally _thisclose_ to making it out the door when someone called out, "Have fun~!"

"Francis? What the hell?" Lovino demanded, pointing an accusing finger at his annoying coworker. "Aren't you supposed to be in the kitchen?"

"Don't point, Lovi. It's rude," Francis scolded. "And we haven't had any food orders recently—which you _should_ have noticed, considering you're a _waiter_."

… As if Lovino was going to admit that he hadn't been able to concentrate on anything all evening, too busy trying to figure out what the hell Antonio was going to do.

"Shut up. Bastard."

"Oh, you'll find I'm not," Francis replied with a wink (seriously, how he could manage to look sexy in a dirty apron and a hairnet the world may never know.) "And you might also want to thank me. For … Reasons."

Lovino considered this interesting development for a moment before accusing, "You know what Antonio has planned, don't you?"

The Frenchman rolled his eyes and said, "No, it's not like I'm the _expert in the matters of l'amour_ that he consults about _everything_, or anything."

Lovino was a badass Italian and badass Italians do not screech. No matter what anyone says.

"… You're _what_?!"

"An expert in the matters of _l'amour_. That your lovely boyfriend consults. Frequently." Francis seemed to be enjoying the moment far too much for his own god, honestly.

"What the fuck does 'consult' mean?!" the Italian asked, his voice back to a more normal pitch.

His (evil, evil, _evil_) coworker smirked (_evilly_.) "That's for me to know and you to find out, my angry little Italian."

"Do you two have conversations about me? When I'm not around?"

"Good job, you have some intelligence after all."

" … _What_ the actual _fuck_ … I give up."

Lovino made the (probably wise) choice to get out of there before he learned anything else he'd have been better off not knowing.

_Bella luna, my beautiful, beautiful moon,__  
__How you swoon me like no other._

Antonio liked to believe that when he did something, he put all of his effort into it, and did it _right_. Especially when it was for Lovino.

He surveyed the apartment the way a master architect looks upon his prize-winning building. This had taken him hours to plan, gather materials, and finally set up, and it was perfect. Lovino would love it. He had to.

The Spaniard glanced around one last time and checked on the food to make sure it would stay hot for the next half hour or so, then tiptoed out of the apartment, careful not to break anything. Outside, he settled down on the front steps to wait for his guest of honor to arrive. The steps were cold and uncomfortable, and it wasn't the most pleasant of nights, but the forecast looked promising. Besides, Antonio would wait there all night—forever, if he had to—for Lovino.

Luckily for Antonio's magnificent backside, though, it was only a few minutes before a certain Italian turned the corner and shouted, "Oi, bastard, where the hell are we going?"

"Someplace special," his boyfriend called back, grinning.

_May I suggest you get the best,__  
__Of your wish may I insist,__  
__That no contest for little you or smaller I,__  
__A larger chance happened, all them they lie,__  
__On the rise, on the brink of our lives._

Of course, "someplace special" meant "a secret," and "a secret" meant "Lovi, I'm really sorry about this, but I need to blindfold you for a bit."

Lovino was not particularly pleased about the arrangement (he liked being able to see where he was going, damn it) but Antonio refused to take him anywhere unless he put the blindfold on, and Antonio was … Well. Antonio. And wherever they were going probably was pretty freaking awesome, and …

_Dios. _Lovino was getting soft.

He could ponder the potential disastrous implications of that thought later, though, because after being led down streets and around corners for what could easily have been enough time for a slug to run (well, run as well as a slug can) a mile, his right sneaker bumped into some sort of step.

"Oh, sorry, Lovi—there're some stairs here. Watch your step~!"

"Stairs, fuck everything," the Italian complained. "You make me follow you around the city like a fucking dog on a fucking leash, and then you forget to warn me about the goddamned stairs. Do you want me to trip and hurt my fucking head?"

It's hard to sound convincingly annoyed when your pulse is racing and your lips at risk of rebelling to turn upside-down any second, even when you could practically write a book on sounding annoyed when you aren't.

"Okay, time to take the blindfold off!" Antonio shouted enthusiastically—how was it possible that he could inject a grin into his voice like that, Lovino wondered, but he didn't have long to think about it, because there were hands fumbling at the back of his head and—and, _Dio_, couldn't he fucking _hurry It up already_—and a veil was lifted, and—

Lovino meant to say, "You have _got_ to be fucking kidding me." He meant to slap his cheap-ass boyfriend, for being a cheap-ass boyfriend. He meant to swear and whine and disguise the sparkle in his eyes with a carefully-painted mask, but …

But.

It was their apartment, but it wasn't their apartment. It had undergone a transformation, from a simple, not particularly impressive, perhaps more cluttered than most group of rooms in the Latin Quarter of Philadelphia to a faerie house in some surreal world created by a seven-year-old girl, old enough to put into words her vision of what life could be like when she grows up and young enough to still believe it. The only light in the rooms came from candles—more candles than on the Phantom set during Music of the Night—that shone into every nook and cranny, taking everyday objects such as stoves and countertops and chairs and illuminating them, turning them into something surreal, something special. Instead of flowers (which, for any normal couple, would have been a necessary part of this scenario, but for Antonio and Lovino, were just something that wilts in a couple of weeks), there were the ripest, plumpest of tomatoes, placed on every available flat surface. Music played quietly; it was Antonio's music, Lovino suddenly realized, and not just any music, but the Sunshine Song, the first song Lovino had ever heard Antonio play (when had he even recorded that?).

There is only so much a man can do to his apartment to make it special, and Antonio had already done something pretty similar to this one on Valentine's Day, when he'd asked Lovino out in the first place. And yet, somehow, nothing was the same. On Valentine's Day, a nervous man had frantically placed objects that he thought were supposed to be romantic in random places and hoped for the best. For this date, however, a happy and hopeful man had put careful consideration into every little detail, because he wanted it to be perfect. On Valentine's Day, Lovino hadn't really noticed anything, because he'd been too busy trying to lock himself in his room as quickly as possible. This time, though, he didn't want to run.

He could stay here forever, beneath these candles that shone like a halo around his head.

Any complaints about how Antonio had made him tramp around the city for half an hour just to come back to the apartment, or about how Antonio had been too cheap to take him to an actual restaurant died in Lovino's throat before they could even try to rear their ugly heads.

Instead, what came out of his mouth was a hesitant whisper:

"You did all of this … For me?"

_You are the queen and king combining everything,__  
__Intertwining like a ring around the finger of a girl.__  
__I'm just a singer, you're the world.__  
_

The tide doesn't come in quickly. It ebbs and flows, rises and falls, tiptoes out onto the beach and then, terrified of what lies beyond, races back to its safe haven beyond the shoreline. Sometimes, the ocean gives the impression that it has no idea what it's doing, running back and forth like a girl in the focal point of love triangle of some teen romance novel. Eventually, though, it somehow manages to reach the sand, where it rests for a couple of hours, comforted by the sand's bright, warm presence.

Antonio thought about the ocean, sometimes, when he thought about Lovino. Other times, he thought about the moon, or a tomato, or, on occasion, a disgruntled cat. Lovino was as unpredictable as the weather, as insane as a drunk college student. Antonio could rarely tell what he's thinking (although he liked to believe he was improving) and he loved that.

Right now, though, with Lovino's eyes shining like stars and that one little question, Antonio believed—no, hoped—no, _believed_—that Lovino was finally starting to realize that, _yes_, Antonio wanted to do nice things for him, because, _yes_, Antonio really did like him and wouldn't abandon him, because, _yes_, Lovino was worth it.

"I'd do anything for you," Antonio said, spreading out his arms as though to indicate the entire world, which he'd give to Lovino if he could.

Lovino turned to Antonio, and for a moment, Antonio thought the kiss he'd been awaiting for _weeks_ might be about to happen. Unfortunately, Lovino was not of the same mindset, apparently, because he stepped away moments later, blushing and muttering something about a need to pee.

_Dang it_.

Antonio didn't mean to be one of those guys who's only focused on the physical aspects of dating, but it _had_ been a while, and he really wanted to kiss Lovino, because he'd done it before and it had been wonderful, but he had to wait for Lovino to be ready, but he couldn't know when Lovino would be ready, because he couldn't ask, because Lovino would get mad and probably yell at him and definitely not kiss him, and … Relationships are hard.

But, anyway. With Lovino in the bathroom, Antonio had a few minutes to set up the next piece of the amazing date.

_All I can bring ya,__  
__Is the language of a lover._

"You made all of this _yourself_?! Are you fucking _serious_?!"

"Um …" Antonio looked down at the balcony table, full of food, and then at Lovino, and then down again. "Yes?"

The Italian usually didn't compliment food (except, maybe, if it was Felicia's food, because he had a weakness for his sister, but don't ever tell her that), but this … Garlic bread laced with olive oil, delicious-smelling paella, pasta that shined like a freaking sun, three different kinds of tomato salads … It was the perfect mix of Italian and Spanish food, and it had all been made just for Lovino. _Wow_.

"How come you aren't a chef, instead of a singer?" Lovino asked some time later, after the vast majority of the food had perished honorably in the two men's stomachs.

Antonio shrugged. "I like singing more," he said simply.

Lovino thought about that for a moment, Antonio not being a singer, and realized that the world really would not be the same. "I guess … I guess I can't blame you."

The Spaniard wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or not. He hoped it was.

But it did remind him …

"Speaking of singing, I have something else for you, Lovi~!"

"Oh, God. Please don't tell me you're going to fucking _sing _for me," Lovino groaned. "Can't you ever think of anything _else_ to do?"

Antonio knew he didn't mean it, though, because when he pulled out his guitar and started to strum, Lovino leaned in a little and closed his eyes, as though trying not to smile.

_A pair of eyes, a closin' one,__  
__A chosen child of golden sun,__  
__A marble dog that chases cars,__  
__To farthest reaches of the beach and far beyond into the swimming sea of stars._

As he sang, Antonio watched Lovino's face, looking more and more like a tomato with each passing line. The Italian – _his_ Italian, Antonio thought with a happy shudder – was like a present he wanted to unwrap, layers of adorable fake anger topped with a bow of beautiful features hiding a core of unbelievable sweetness. Most people, just looking at Lovino, would claim that such sweetness didn't exist, but Antonio knew it was there, shyly avoiding being seen. Antonio caught glimpses of it on rare occasions – a happy smile, a laugh, the look in Lovino's eyes when Antonio said something kind.

Antonio wanted to bring that sweetness out of Lovino's core and into his outer shell, because he just _knew_ that when he did, Lovino would shine.

Like a moon, a moon to his sun.

His beautiful, beautiful moon.

His _bella luna_.

And, singing to that moon, trying to coax the sweetness out, Antonio wondered how he could ever hope to deserve somebody as perfect as Lovino.

_The cosmic fish they love to kiss,__  
__They're giving birth to constellation,__  
__No riffs and oh, no reservation.__  
__If they should fall you get a wish or dedication._

As Antonio sang, Lovino watched his face, marveling at his obvious happiness. The Spaniard – _his_ Spaniard, Lovino thought with an odd kind of unsure contentment – wore his feelings on his sleeve, but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. True, when everybody knew what you felt, it was much easier to get hurt, but who would want to hurt Antonio? He was … he was … oh, _Dio _damn it, he was the most lovable person on the planet! He was kind, generous, a gentleman, and so constantly happy that his joy seemed to make him literally _shine._

Compared to everyone else Lovino knew, he was a sun, shining with the euphoria of being alive and singing songs and loving anything he found worth loving (which, it seemed, was almost everything.)

What Lovino truly wanted – though he would never admit it – was to be one of those things Antonio worth loving.

He wanted some of that beautiful sunlight to shine on him, a pitiful wimp with layers of bitter hiding a core of empty.

Was that really too much to ask?

And, basking in some of that light as its origin sang, imagining that it was shining for him, Lovino wondered how he could ever hope to deserve somebody as perfect as Antonio.

_You're dancing naked there for me__,_

_You expose all memory,__  
__You make the most of boundary,__  
__You're the ghost of royalty imposing love._

The final notes of the song drifted into the air, met a breeze, made friends with it, and rode away on its back. The two men, now connected by a silence that said nothing and said everything, continued to stare at each other as though they were the only two people in the world.

Lovino finally had to blush and look away, unable to uphold his end of the gazing.

Antonio dropped his guitar onto his chair with a soft _thunk_, then swiftly crossed the balcony to Lovino and took the Italian's face in his huge, calloused hands, turning it until its eyes were forced to focus on him. They really were beautiful eyes, the Spaniard thought – all green and brown and gold.

Lovino didn't protest; he simply blushed even more.

_Success._

"Lovi," Antonio whispered, "_mi tomate_, I think that was a good song, don't you?"

"Y-yeah," Lovino muttered. "I-I mean, no! I-I mean … Don't get such a huge ego, bastard."

"Ah, so you agree~?"

"I never said that, damn it!"

"Okay. But I still say it was. And since I wrote that entire song, just for you … I think you should give me something in return."

O-oh, _Dio._ Lovino wasn't ready for this. He didn't know how to show emotion. He'd been an angry little piece of shit for too long! He knew what Antonio wanted him to do, but he didn't want to do it! Or did he? Damn it, it was all so fucking _confusing_!

"I mean," Antonio added, seeing Lovino's inner turmoil, "you don't have to if you don't want to, I just thought it would be nice. It's just that you're the most beautiful person I've ever met and I really like you and I'd sing for you ever day just for one of those amazing smiles of yours and …"

Oh, damn it, Lovino didn't trust himself not to say anything incredibly sweet and stupid that he'd definitely regret later.

So, he did something else with his mouth instead.

And, as the Italian and the Spaniard moved their bodies and their hearts in the slow dance of love on that balcony, one's moonshine and the other's sunshine combined in an explosion of everything wonderful there is in the world.

_Oh bella do what you do.__  
__Bella luna, my beautiful, beautiful moon._

"Too. Cute. For. Words."

"Then how did you just say words?"

"You know what I meant."

"Yes, but teasing you is a major source of pleasure in my life. And besides, I've seen cuter."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Positive?"

"Yes."

"Mattie doesn't count."

"… We should stop talking. Liz won't pay us very much for this if it's got our voices all over it."

"Are you kidding? Look, they're kissing again now … This is gold."

"Okay, fine, maybe it is."

_How you swoon me like no other, oh oh oh._

* * *

**Hey … Long time no see … *waves awkwardly***

**First of all, I would like to say that I am **_**not**_** abandoning this story. The hiatus is hereby over, and I don't play on stopping again (unless the story runs into November, in which case there will be a necessary NaNoWriMo hiatus, but I'm not even going to think about that right now.) In that vein, I apologize to everyone that the hiatus went on so long. The break from writing seriously did help me put all of my thoughts (and priorities) in order, though, and I feel a lot better about this whole thing now.**

**Also, thank you so much (times infinity) to everyone who sent me fic recs. They actually did help, quite a lot. (And, of course, I read Bottoms Up! again, which is never a bad thing.)**

**With all of that said, there will be a couples of changes made. First change: new beta! Go, Epic F. Awesomesauce. Go her. She is … epic and awesome, as you might have been able to tell by her username. Second change: updates won't be on Fridays, because I have discovered that Fridays are the days on which nothing gets done, ever. Updates will more likely be Saturdays, or possibly very early Sunday morning. Third change: I'm reinstating the We Sing, We Dance, We Eat Tomatoes Tumblr, and there will actually be stuff there now. Like, previews to new chapters I'm working on and stuff like that. (In addition, I have this other Tumblr blog where I post original writing, if anyone's into that. The url is owlwrites . tumblr . com.)**

**Fourth (and most important) change: EVERYONE BOTHER ME. EVERYONE. I AM ENCOURAGING IT. SEE, I'M EVEN WRITING IN ALL CAPS. What I mean by this is: if it's Saturday, and you don't see a chapter up, I beg you, please go to any of my three Tumblrs (my main one, dishonoronyourgametes, the WSWDWET one, or the original writing one) and send me lots of asks yelling at me to work on the story. Or add me on Skype, if Skype is a thing that you have (my username there is owlinaminor, not too hard to find) and bother me there. Feel free to be as harsh as you want. I might even give you spoilers. Seriously.**

**So, yeah, that's my spiel. In other news, life in general is not bad for me at the moment—did pretty well on my exams, got a summer job (working at a day camp, yay kids), accidentally joined the Star Trek fandom (I recommend all fics by waldorph and screamlet on the AO3 if you need to fulfill your Kirk/Spock fix), generally not dying (except perhaps of excess mosquito bites.)**

**As one of my Homestuck friends recently told me, summer is a great time for updates. :)**


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